Odysseus Rises
by Lasgalendil
Summary: Zsasz stalks the streets. Nabokov rules the Narrows. In the weeks after Rachel's death, Alfred and Lucius watch Bruce begin his descent as the Dark Detective. But what do Dr. Fries and Dr. Isley have planned for Gotham? In the aftermath of the Joker, the GCPD find their faith-and spirits-tested in the face of growing violence, public outcry, and a husband's brutal murder.
1. The Broadcast

The following is an FBI audio recording from PANDEMONIUM taskforce Operation LIVEWIRE, in which undercover operatives successfully infiltrated a group of students at Gotham University responsible for the organization of mass protests and resulting massacre on September 1st, 2030. This pre-recorded broadcast was given over video streaming to all public access terminals on the University Campus and coincided with the official news coverage of the ceremonies of interment for Christopher Holden and Natalie Hendricks. Governor Stephanie Miller and Interim Mayor/Police Commissioner James Gordon presided.

As of this moment, television coverage will have started, and I will find myself a part of those gathered to mourn not only two inspirational journalists or an exceptional employer but two of my dearest friends. But I find it necessary to clarify it is in commemoration of these lives and NOT in support of the state sanctioned ceremonies that make a mockery of these recent tragedies.

Christopher Holden chose death in a heinous manner at the hands of the man called the Joker rather than submit to his whims so that we would know this city stands strong. Gotham is ours, for and by the people, and no mad man or corrupt government has the power to take that away. Natalie Hendricks died to bring you coverage of the August 30th riots so you would know what happened to these brave young men and women and who is to blame for the atrocities of their deaths. She was shot and killed not as the state now claims by Joker fans, but from behind by the bullet of a National Guard issued gun.

And another man, not as recognized but no less great, Paul Binkowski. He lived and died behind a camera so all of Gotham might see. He was a hard worker, honest, and loyal, and although he was unknown he will never be forgotten.

These three, and the many students who died that night, died in service to this City, and to this country. They were heroes, they were patriots, and their efforts should never be ignored or censored for the sake of making the public feel safe. You deserve to know the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth surrounding this night, and anything less deserves to be called a lie. "It is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those who, having eyes, see not, and, having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly concern their temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth; to know the worst, and to provide for it."

These are the words of a true patriot, Patrick Henry, a man who fought against the oppression of a tyranny that limited freedoms of speech, of thought, and of press. But that same tyranny now presides over the funerals of three brave, wonderful people who fought and died to preserve those same freedoms for you.

My fellow Gothamites and Americans, I ask only that your cry be like theirs, that you demand of yourselves, your neighbors, your news corporations and your government the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth with the promise of liberty-both of yourselves and of your press-or death.

May God bless Gotham. God bless us all.

**Note: **The narration of this audio file has been positively identified as the voice of former TV 18 employee Rebecca James. Miss James has been taken into custody under statues of emergency military jurisdiction with charges of sedition, incitement to violence, and public dispersal of classified information.

**Additional Note:** Miss James was subsequently released after national public outcry and threat of more popular uprisings against the continued military presence and suppressions of freedoms of speech and press in Gotham City. President Calderon's direct involvement can neither be confirmed nor denied.

**Final Note:** The recovering Wayne Legacy Foundation has purchased a controlling share in TV 18 Industries. As of this writing, the Foundation has expressed its intent of establishing the Tanaka, Binkowski, Hendricks and Holden Academic Scholarships for deserving high school graduates of low-income families interested in pursuing a degree in journalism.

Miss James has petitioned courts for temporary legal guardianship status of one Gracie Tanaka, alleged niece of TV 18's Good Morning Gotham reporter, the late Trisha Tanaka. The child's family went missing Monday, August 19th in the Legacy attack but have yet to be located or declared legally dead by state authorities.

* * *

I am deeply interested in the progress and elevation of journalism, having spent my life in that profession, regarding it as a noble profession and one of unequaled importance for its influence upon the minds and morals of the the people—Joseph Pulitzer

* * *

**Next Chapter: A midnight walk for a GSU professor turns deadly.**


	2. Intransigence

******March 2029-****Gotham State University Campus**

First that psychiatrist and that mobster's mislaid plans. The Scarecrow and the Roman. He had them, however, to thank for his hard won freedom. And justice had not been blind: his captors had become captives themselves, rotting in anonymity in Arkham Asylum. But he'd barely just begun when along came the warpath and chaos of that deranged Clown. All throughout the Joker's reign of terror he had lain low, skulking in the shadows, painting with the Narrow's sick, tired and poor where his subtlety would go unappreciated, swallowed by the madman's brash acts and explosive wrath.

His was a higher aesthetic, and required the proper staging and ambiance. Where the Joker had painted his pictures to fit the canvas, he was forced to scour the city for the right hour, right place, right woman on which to work his masterpiece. Artistry, Victor Zsasz knew, was unappreciated. He lamented the birth of the cynical, postmodern world. He wept to hear that art—like so many Greats before her—was dead, another victim of the scheduling and scrutiny of the twenty first century

Dead. Death. Zombies all. He sneered with contempt at these Contemporary artists and their abstract works, either a mess of chaotic brush-strokes, or art subdued, Conceptualized, brought under yoke and chain. He laughed at the thought of man making it a machine: art turned both harnessed and harvester.

Art—_true art_—was not tool. It was merely a medium of expression.

No, the purpose of art was not capturing the fragility of a flower permanently in photographs or still life watercolors. The beauty of artistry—like the fleeting, evanescent essence of life—was solely in the spirit. _Jack the Ripper_, the media said in attempt to turn gross sensationalism to profit. _Gotham's own grotesque serial killer_. But his work was nothing compared to that madman's butchery, and how they'd all walked away disappointed, discontent in their desire for the macabre!

…no, the beauty of art—like the tragedy of life—was in its imperfections and impermanence. And only through realization could humanity ever hope to appreciate how delicate, how precious human life really was.

The woman was walking home alone. Streetlamps gave splintering shadows and the soft rain a scintillating reflection, a fitting stage upon which a star-crossed lover could fall. She spoke on her blue-tooth phone as she went, harried and busy with her briefcase and books, too preoccupied to notice him, to notice the ethereal shapes lent the city by the night-time shower. Middle-aged. Professional. Jaded and weary with the weight of urban living. All her life until now trapped in a cage of her own making, like a bird, staring languidly out the bars and wishing for freedom. She twittered her sad song into the telephone as she walked, a lament for her suffering.

Zsasz took pity on her, pity on all of them, these stray, midnight masses in need of shepherding.

…so he freed her.

Gently he held her. Stroked her sleek hair as she bled out silently. And only then, once that last, heaving breath was over, did he gouge a long, gaping swath of flesh from his forearm.

_Sixty-one._

* * *

**Next Chapter: Even an early morning walk can't clear Alfred's mind. **


	3. How to Prepare a Proper Cup of Tea

******March 2029-Wayne Manor**

At precisely 05:30 am, Alfred Pennyworth awoke.

The Englishman might be in his seventies, yes; but he was determined to continue his role as Bruce's manservant as long as possible. Wayne Manor would have made a comfortable retirement, and someone much younger could facilitate all the estate's and the foundation's needs...but not Bruce's. And certainly not the Batman's. Besides, retirement was for the elderly and feeble, those who _could_ not work anymore, three things hardly applicable to himself. He'd considered it, yes; a nice, peaceful place in the idyllic English countryside, within a day's driving distance to London. But those were dreams of a bygone age, much like his boyhood. He'd wanted to be a surgeon, but working for Dr. Thomas Wayne had been the closest he'd come. A bit of trouble in his youth, a lenient judge willing to drop charges in exchange for military service, and the discovery that he was, in fact, one of the fiercest fighters in Her Majesty's Service when it came to it had altered the trajectory of his life considerably.

He owed it to Thomas to stay. He owed it to the children, the Legacy's children—children so much like himself, like Bruce—to stay. So stay he did. A quick cup of morning tea, with full fat real dairy cream (not _creamer_—as some might say) and exactly one cube of refined white sugar, then he was off to the garden to walk. His daily exercise, ninety paces per minute, for thirty minutes, per the doctor's orders. _They'd_ wanted him to stop the cream and sugar, but Alfred Pennyworth was _English_, and these uncouth American hoodlums—medical training or no—couldn't possibly appreciate the aesthetic of a proper cup of tea.

You had to let it properly seep. And you had to use _real ingredients._ Change his morning routine? he'd scoffed. Death first! No, _exercise_ first. A compromise with his family physician. Death could wait.

…death could wait a very long time. Young Master Wayne had already lost two parents. Knowing where that had taken him, Alfred Pennyworth dreaded what might become of his charge were he to lose a third.

Ninety paces. Thirty minutes. In the cold, the dark, the sleet and rain. He braved the elements as he'd once done for Queen and Country, but this time he did it for Bruce.

* * *

**Next Chapter: Bruce bears the guilt of Rachel's death over breakfast and the Batman's failures.**


	4. Bitter Brewings

"Up early again, I see." Bruce commented over his mug of morning coffee (Dark. Earthy. Columbian.). All through his days as Batman, Alfred Pennyworth had remained defiant about his morning routine , refusing to compromise on the time of his rising. This had led to Alfred falling asleep in narcoleptic-like fits, and once—much to the Englishman's permanent chagrin—to sleeping through his alarm. It was only after that the old butler had begrudgingly accepted his aging body's demands, sleeping in later on the nights the Batman prowled. Even then, he'd risen before Bruce, always presentable, with his white hair immaculate and his clothes crisply pressed.

"You as well, sir," the butler brought him breakfast, a delicious, steaming eggs benedict, golden yellow like the rising sun. His first breakfast back in Wayne Manor. He'd enjoyed the Penthouse, yes; and as it fit his playboy persona he'd still spend most of his time there, but a touch of nostalgia hit him when the contractors said it was finally finished. He'd already went about installing a new entrance to, well, 'The Bat Cave', as his underactive imagination kept calling it. But the Manor was where it had all begun. His parents, that fall into the cave, Rachel's friendship, his return as the vigilante…

Rachel. It ached to be back in their familiar haunt. It felt closer to her, and he needed that. Needed _her_. The sweetness of scented memories to drown out his pain. But he wasn't the only one living in the shadow of this house who missed her, no. He'd have to go pay his respects to the widowed Mrs. Dawes. The retired groundskeeper still lived nearby in the servant's cottage, but he'd never known her well. She was hired help, and he'd been the boss' son. He only really knew her because of Rachel.

….and he supposed Alfred had continued to let her live there for much the same reasoning. Rachel Dawes. Rachel Katherine Dawes. He owed her so much…yet he'd never once thanked her. It made taking the fall, becoming hated for Harvey Dent's death so much easier. She'd died believing he'd save her, that one way or the other he would come for her before the end. He'd failed her. Failed her twice. Bruce Wayne—and the Batman—_deserved _to be hated.

Alfred would be more acquainted. Perhaps he'd take him along. "What's the plan, Alfred?"

"Plan, sir?" the butler looked up from his morning Sudoku. Behind him, Good Morning Gotham with Chris Holden and that Tanaka girl was playing with subtitles on the muted tv:

ZSASZ RETURNED? WOMAN FOUND DEAD DURING DOWNTOWN DOWNPOUR

Bruce tasted bile. Couldn't take another bite of that breakfast. He pushed it away. "For today. Got any hot dates planned for the evening?" But it was too late, that joke—in light of that sobering news—had already miscarried.

"Not as of yet, Master Wayne," the Butler continued blithely, oblivious to the horrors unfolding on the closed captioning. So it had happened late last night—the papers had already hit the press. There hadn't been time to change the headlines. "I am, however, quite open to suggestion."

He tried not to wonder if the Batman could have saved her. He tried not to wonder if he, too, was responsible for her fate.

"I'm thinking about stopping over," he returned instead. "At the grounds' cottage. Pay my respects. What do you think?"

"A touching gesture. Perhaps too much so," Alfred folded the newspaper, Sudoku forgotten.

"Alfred…does she blame me?" Could she possibly blame him as much as he blamed himself?

"No, Master Wayne. No, not at all," the Englishman soothed. "It's just that she may think it…out of character."

How had he forgotten? To Rachel's sole surviving family he was Bruce Wayne, the carefree, careless, billionaire playboy disguise he must wear. As Bruce Wayne he was never allowed to grieve. Never allowed to heal. Never allowed to apologize for all those burned and broken bridges he'd made so many years ago. Bruce Wayne was a mask, but truth be told, he preferred the other. "Well, send flowers. A card. Something. From you, at the very least."

"Already done, sir. I've also taken the liberty of setting up a scholarship in her name."

He blinked. That shouldn't've surprised him. "You have? When?"

"Almost immediately upon her death, sir. Your father's Foundation."

It left him breathless, winded, but it was good to hear. "I…thank you, Alfred. For keeping her alive."

"My pleasure, sir," the butler cleared his unfinished plate. "And I am truly sorry, sir."

* * *

**Next Chapter: Reporter Chris Holden adjusts to life as newly-single. **


	5. Celibacy Doesn't Suit Me

******March 2029**

**TV 18 Studios**

Trisha Tanaka. Deep navy with red and white pinstripes. Pencil skirt and heels paired with a slim, stylish cravat. Her cream-colored blouse was high-collared, and not a hint of cleavage—or collarbone—showed.

…but STILL. _Fuck being single_, Chris shook his head. This sudden celibacy was like being back in high school, the way his hormones were jumping. Dicks were like toddlers in the car on the way to Disneyland, and you never knew when they were going to raise a rousing chorus of _are we there yet are we there yet are we there yet—?_

She bent to pick up a stray pop can, skittering around the parking lot.

HOW ABOUT…NOW?

He could slap himself. But she'd notice that, and Trisha Tanaka was intuitive enough she'd know _why_. And unlike Cam, and plenty of other girls he knew (Marísol, for one…) Trisha didn't relish in male attention. As far as he could tell, uninvited stares bothered her, and she was so self-conscious about those breasts. Lucky Michael, whoever the hell he was. Half the guys he knew would kill for a chance to see them.

"How's it going?" Chris asked her kindly.

She shrugged those small shoulders. "Okay, I guess,"

"You find a place to live yet?" He'd offered her a room on the Estate, but she'd felt too uncomfortable accepting it. Living in the house that would have been his and Cam's. Besides, she'd said with some chagrin, Holden Estate was way out in the Palisades and she'd never learnt to drive.

Petite? Helpless? …_Female? _

…_RESCUE HER!_

(Shut the fuck up!)

Although honestly, by three weeks post-break up, all his sexual preferences had gone out the window. His type was now any woman who would give him the time of day. He wasn't some boorish brute. He prided himself in being a _gentleman._ He was BETTER THAN THIS. Even as a teenager he'd had a short string of mutually monogamous affairs, so he really didn't relish the idea of rebound sex. Or a rebound relationship. But the way things were going, even with running a 10K daily he couldn't concentrate.

"Yes," she stooped again, grabbing for a Subway sandwich wrapper. That was Trisha: overworked, and still helping out. He didn't have the heart to tell her TV 18 paid good money for grounds maintenance. Hell, she'd probably do it anyways. That was just the type of person she was.

"Good," he said, picking up trash in turn. "I'm glad to hear it. " Truth be told, he really wasn't. He would've liked the company. Perhaps she sensed that, too. They already worked together, saw each other hours a day for days on end. She was dating someone, had been for quite some time, and he'd come to think of her as the little adopted Asian sister he never had. It'd be a shame for something as stupid as his unruly hormones or Cameron Shaw to mess that chemistry up.

"I'm staying with Natalie."

"Natalie?" he scratched his chin.

"You know," she flushed. "Cam's friend."

"Oh, you mean Gnat!" Chris laughed. "The batty one with the weird hair and the glasses, right?" Bottle-rimmed, bug-eyed glasses. Not to mention a strange phobia of eyeballs, and a borderline religious obsession with spiders and XKCD. As a civil engineer with GC Transit, he'd interviewed her after Fear Night. She'd been so jumpy most of the footage was unusable.

"She's really nice," Trish insisted. "She got over her fear of eyeballs and she's got contacts now and everything."

"Yeah, I, I liked her. She was nice," he told her, stretching in the warm afternoon sun. "Always reminded me a bit of Trelawney, though. From Harry Potter?" In all honesty, Chris wouldn't be surprised if Natalie Hendricks owned a hundred _cats._

She tried not to frown in disapproval, but he knew every twitch in Trisha Tanaka's face. And right now, she was pouting. "She's _really nice_."

He nodded sadly, and touched her arm. "She took you in," he said. "She must be."

* * *

**Next Chapter: Fox discovers some discrepancies in the R and D finances.**


	6. Researching a New Development

**March 2029**

**WE Research and Development**

From the moment Bruce Wayne arrived in the R and D basement, he'd wanted a look at the Tumbler.

"Redesigned. Upgraded. Ready for use," Lucius Fox touched her steel-alloy frame proudly. To tell the truth, he'd already taken her for a test drive, although he'd let Bruce believe he held that honor.

"She looks beautiful, Lucius," the younger man assured him. "It's a shame about the last one."

"I believe the military is making good use of her, Mr. Wayne," with sripping the parts and reverse engineering them being the most likely course of action. It would do them little good. The Tumbler had been abandoned long before even when WE was heavily active in munitions and weapons research: she was a bridging vehicle, yes; but impractically expensive.

"You shouldn't have, Fox. You really shouldn't have. She'll never see the light of day," and neither would the Batman, his young charge didn't have to add.

But Mr. Pennyworth and himself were of differing opinions. Bruce Wayne may think himself done with the Batman, yes…but Gotham City wasn't ready. Not yet. And truth be told, that same smoldering anger still lurked in his eyes, the Batman threatening to break through. Bruce's grief had him under control…for now. Fox had no assurances—and no doubts—on just how long this uneasy truce would last. "She may yet, Mr. Wayne," he said instead. "She may just yet."

"So," Bruce clapped his hands together as they walked back to the office. Or desk, as it truly was. Fox's CEO suite upstairs was luxurious with two-hundred and seventy degrees of Gotham City skyline, but his personal space down here was much more cramped, cluttered, and comfortable. His familiar haunt. "As good as it is to see her, I'm positive that's not the only reason you called me down here."

"No indeed, Mr. Wayne. No indeed."

"I have an eleven o'clock tee time," Bruce quipped, glancing down at his Rolex straight-faced. "What gives?"

"We might have a problem here, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce slumped, suddenly weary. "You'd led me to believe the Reese issue had been handled."

"It was handled, Mr. Wayne," Fox assured him. "Internally. Mr. Reese continues to be on WE employ…stationed at one of our satellite facilities, however. He is handsomely compensated, and far, far away from the eye of the media."

Thomas' son frowned. "So if he's staying silent, what's the issue?"

A good—and pressing—question. One he'd had himself since seeing the reports. "His research into our financials brought some things to light. Coleman Reese was a careful, calculating accountant, for whatever it's worth. And he discovered some…irregularities."

Bruce set his jaw guardedly. "We both know where they came from, Lucius…"

"Not all of them," his corrected, and Bruce raised his brows. "Now this is forensic accounting, and you and I can't begin to hope to understand. But our Internal Auditing team took a look at this, and it concerned them."

"That's an electricity bill."

"An awfully expensive electricity bill, Mr. Wayne."

"More than allotted to R and D?"

"No. But a fairly large percentage of it. It had previously gone unnoticed…well, you can understand the reasons why. But now that those days are over, it's come to light. Mr. Reese was quite dutiful to notice it."

"Where's the power going?"

"Medical lab. The projects have mostly been abandoned now. I visited them this morning, and there's a large cryogenics unit still fully functional."

"Cryogenics?" Bruce asked, alarmed. "You mean dead bodies? Please tell me there's no bodies hidden in our basement, Lucius."

"Not that I'm aware of, Mr. Wayne," he chuckled pleasantly. "At least not of yet."

"Why were we investigating cryogenics? And when?"

"It started in the 1970's, with your grandfather, at the height of the Cold War. Most of those munitions and mad science projects stopped once your father took control of the company, but some still managed to slip through the cracks. This being one of them."

"Was Earle aware?"

"Honestly, Mr. Wayne, who knows," William Earl had kept much secret during his tenure. The man had been corrupt, and they hadn't exactly parted on the best of terms. 'Didn't you get the memo' wasn't the politest way to tell a man he'd just been downsized, no. But the memory still brought him a satisfied smile. Lucius Fox wasn't a smug man, but he'd cherish that memory until his dying day.

"Who's running it now?"

"Fries. Dr. V. Theophil Fries, PhD in cryopathology, with special emphasis certification on coagulation hemoglobinopathies. He was hired five years ago, under the previous administration." The previous _corrupt _administration, he didn't have to add.

"So the program has been active since that time."

"Since before that time, if you'll beg my pardon. IT has pulled recruitment emails and HR has released the terms of his original employment contract, as well as a large developmental grant from NASA," Fox explained. "Fries was actively recruited by both organizations, and he proved an enthusiastic candidate."

Thomas' son sighed, the strain and weight of the Batman's failures written on his young face. "I'll look into it."

Bruce missed the Batman, he knew. Missed the thrill and vigor of it. Missed the distraction it gave him, especially after that poor Dawes woman's death. It'd taken him a while to begin to cope. And he was far, far from fully healing, Alfred hadn't needed to explain. But getting him involved in his father's company, getting him invested…well, it had proved to be a welcome distraction. And with the media attention on Dent's demise…Bruce didn't need to be reminded of that night. It had taken his and Alfred's fullest efforts, but now Bruce Wayne spent his days and sleepless nights investigating discrepancies within the company from behind the scenes, no longer the Dark Knight, but the Dark Detective.

… for Fries's sake, Lucius Fox hoped this unregistered side-project held no taint of malice.

* * *

**Next Chapter: Natalie Hendricks' dinner ends in heartache and disaster.**


	7. Star-crossed Lovers and Spaghetti Sauce

**April 2029**

**3141 Beard Avenue**

Chris.

As in Christopher Holden from Good Morning Gotham. AKA Gotham's Own. AKA Cam's boss.

…AKA Cam's _fiancé._ On a scale of one to Victor Zsasz of men Nat would want at her front door, he ranked about a _seven_.

She'd met him many times. Laid back, easy-going, not what she'd expected from a rich kid at all, considering how Bruce Wayne made the headlines every other week. Then again, he had been meeting his fiancée's childhood friend. Cam'd probably told him to toe the line. But that'd been weeks ago, now. Weeks since that breakup. Weeks since Cam had stopped returning her texts…weeks since she'd realized all those terrible rumors about her friend might just be true.

So why the hell was Chris Holden _here_—?

Oh, yeah. He was Trish's boss, too. That made a whole hell of a lot more sense. Natalie Hendricks undid the deadbolt, and slid back the chain. She swung the door forward with a creak of the hinges, but only just enough to stick her face out.

"Trish isn't here right now," she said. _Please go away!_

He stared her straight in the eyes and smiled. "I know."

_Mormons, mormons, it's just like the mormons. Just take a pamphlet and they'll leave you alone! _"Oh, okay then," she called brightly. "Um, what do you want?"

"Natalie Hendricks, if I was so unique and exemplary amongst men, I would've bragged about it by now."

"Sure!" But she still didn't open that door.

He scratched his chin, raking long fingermarks like reddish stubble. "You're not going to make this easy, are you?"

"I'm a civil engineer in Gotham City," she quipped. "Trust me, _nothing's _easy."

He sighed theatrically. "I'm here for the same reason any guy comes to see a girl: sex."

_So not like the mormons! _"Oookay!" She slammed the door shut on him. "Goodbye!"

"You didn't let me finish!" He'd wedged one shoe—and one shoulder—into the frame. By that time she'd fled to the kitchen, frying pan clasped in both hands, with Chef-Boyardee raviolis spattering in viscous chunks all across the linoleum.

"Don't come any closer!" Nat sang, sounding braver than she felt. "This thing is cast iron—it'll hurt like hell!"

"But," he held up his hands in sign of universal surrender, "it does come with a lifetime commitment attached."

"Excuse me?" but she didn't lower that pan.

"I just recently found myself without a fiancée," he explained. "I'm thirty. I'm lonely. I'm _horny, _and I can tell you without any hesitation that you're the nicest woman I've ever met. I'd be stupid if I wasn't here at your door…or, kitchen…" he trailed off, suddenly aware of their surroundings.

"Oh," the forgotten pan fell from her fingers with a clunk. "Did you just…propose?"

"Sort of," Christopher Holden said with a nervous smile. "Too soon?"

She nodded. Stiffly. "A little."

"Right. So, um, Natalie Hendricks, would you go to coffee with me? In a very, very platonic fashion that may or may not end in nudity?"

She giggled despite herself. "I can't."

He really _did_ have a charming smile. "Boyfriend?" he asked.

She shook her head silently, bobbed ponytails bouncing.

…and a _convincing_ one, too. He held out an arm. "Well then, coffee it is."

She almost went. Even in her spaghetti-soaked pajamas she almost went. Almost. "No, Chris, I really can't."

"You're single. I'm single. I'm rich, and also _handsome_," he jested. "It's Friday in Gotham City and the night is So. Very. Young. "

"Cam," she tried to explain. She'd always been better with numbers than words, but she couldn't derive or factor her way out of this one. "I…you were her _fiancé_. You _slept _with her."

"So did a lot of other men," his answer was surprisingly gentle. "But they're not here right now. I am."

"We were kids together. Best friends," Nat rushed. "Then she went into drama and cheerleading and I was a mathlete on the chess team. They called me Gnat, with a G, and I had glasses and braces and scoliosis but she made high school bearable for me. Just to smile at me, hang out with me…she was popular and pretty and I _wasn't._ She wasn't a good person, but she was still my friend. And now she's a heinous bitch and a whore, she's, she's a horrible person and I know it but she's still _my best friend_. At least she was. And you don't do that to your best friend," she ran out of thoughts and breath simultaneously. "You just don't."

Growing up in Gotham, Natalie Elaine Hendricks never thought the saddest thing in the world would be a grown man standing in a puddle of cheap spaghetti sauce.

"How long?" he finally asked her.

"How long what?"

"How long is the statute of limitations on this thing? I mean, surely there must be some point in the distant future where social convention will dictate that it's okay for us to screw."

"Too long."

"How long?" He insisted.

She pressed her lips. It was reject him now, or never. "Six months," she heard herself say.

"Six months," he whispered as seductive as a kiss, then was gone. Then Natalie Hendricks sighed, just a little. Six months was a long time, and Christopher Holden was a hot-blooded, ruddy young male, only a few notches down from Bruce Wayne on Gotham's Most Wanted Single's list. He'd had good intentions, hadn't meant to break her heart, but she'd never see him again.

She looked around at the mess, alone in her kitchen, aware of how empty it was for the very first time. Chris had been right: he was rich and handsome, at her door on a Friday in Gotham City, and the night had been _so young._ Natalie Hendricks, geeky single civil engineer, sunk dejectedly into a puddle of lukewarm raviolis, searching in vain for a word to describe what it was she felt.

…In the end, _dammit_ was all she said.

* * *

**Next Chapter: Lucius Fox devises a plan to investigate the reclusive Dr. Fries.**


	8. An Investigation Underway

**Wayne Enterprises**

**R and D department**

In the end, their undercover investigation hadn't amounted to much. While Victor Theophil Fries wasn't exactly a popular co-worker, he was universally well-respected. His research into both cold and warm agglutinins was unprecedented, pioneering, and his department financials were pristine. With Alfred's help, they'd gotten his little known name onto the Legacy Foundation's financial needs bulletin, and a large sum of federal grant money had been secured. Firstly, because to all appearances (and to Thomas' wishes that WE remain first and foremost a medical and public research facility) Fries' cause was worthy; and secondly, such a circus of charitable media attention merited a personal tour of Wayne Enterprise's CEO and Board.

And, to Dr. V. Theophil Fries' permanent delight, it was one of those rare instances when heir Bruce Wayne was both sober and awake long enough to accompany them.

The inspection had been quite thorough, and Lucius had been satisfied. Bruce remained wary.

…as the Batman, Fox supposed he had to.

"Let's continue to keep an eye on him," Bruce mumbled in the guise of reviewing the grant's wording. "Just in case."

Fox filed the document back with the others. "Mr. Wayne, so far we've found no evidence of impropriety."

"So far," Bruce grunted. "He's been in the shadows for a long while now, he's had the time and space to hide. If there's anything illegal, the publicity will force his hand."

"Of course, Mr. Wayne. And then what?"

The rest of the WE board members shuffled hurriedly past. Bruce checked his watch, complaining loudly he'd be late for lunch date and ordered him to ready the driver for the benefit of their impromptu audience. "We catch him in the act of moving or destroying it."

"I see," Lucius nodded, paging Alfred Pennyworth on the office phone. "And will you be attending the gala, or shall I observe him?"

"Will I? Need you even ask?" Bruce finally broke character. "Free alcohol? Rich, attractive women all vying for the spotlight with their open checkbooks?" he grinned. "Bruce Wayne wouldn't miss that for the world."

Fox chuckled. _No, indeed, Mr. Wayne. No indeed._

* * *

**Next Chapter: Cameron Shaw attends the Wayne Legacy Foundation gala for a personal interview with Dr. Fries.**


	9. A Party of Special Magnificence

******Wayne Legacy Foundation Annual Medical Merit Gala**

******April 2029**

The reception was beautiful.

_Breathtaking_ might have been a better word for it. The Wayne Legacy Foundation outdid even the Oscars and the Nobel Prize in sheer extravagance. They could afford to—arranging a seat for the awards and auctions cost over a hundred grand per person. And whatever exorbitant amount they spent on the myriads of live flowers, veritable host of life-sized ice sculptures, army of party lights, nearly a mile of red carpets and gold-cloth table runners they more than made up for in donations and the wine auction. Whenever and wherever the rich gathered, they were not content to enjoy one another's company. They were compelled to outdo each other…a concept the PR department understood quite well. The alcohol had been donated from Wayne Manor's private collection, and it flowed fast and flowed freely to encourage that rampant rivalry.

But if Bruce Wayne was happy to attend the Legacy Foundation's medical merit gala, Cameron Shaw was decidedly _not_. She'd attended the last two years, certainly; but as a guest. And Chris would definitely be there, some rich tramp gracing his arm were she should have been. He was punishing her, she was certain. She'd fling it back in his face. This Dr. Fries was the highlight of the evening, and she'd make sure to be seen with him. Let Chris have a good long look at that and imply what he would. Chris wasn't the type to be incited to a jealous rage, no; but she could make him _hurt_ if she wanted to. So hurt him she would.

She had to enter by the media entrance. Had to wait in line with all the leeches, receive her Press Pass at registration, accompanied by that oaf Paul (as if coming here without Chris wasn't humiliation enough). She watched men who last year had vied for her attention ignore her presence, saw women who'd once been green with jealousy sneer at her suit. There were whispers. Eyes. Stares. Even Vicky Vale cast her a contemptuous—but ever so sultry—smile.

_Let them eat cake,_ Cam thought icily. These rich snobs and their trophy wives were below her, anyways.

There was a long and boring speech by that Pennyworth, chair of the Legacy Foundation, followed by an exceptionally droll acceptance speech by some Lucius Fox or other, the Wayne Enterprises CEO. Thomas' money going to Thomas' company, Cam didn't miss the irony. She'd have to do a piece on that, stir up some controversy over this celebratory atmosphere. She kept a running chatter for the viewer's benefit, got some choice comments from Gotham's richest and most famous (and most charitable). She covered the wine auction that accompanied desert with great enthusiasm—she was standing not ten feet from Chris' table, and it was evident he'd attended alone.

…he'd won her a two hundred thousand dollar white last year, smooth with crisp autumn flavors and an apple-like aftertaste. They'd danced and drank and fucked all night. She hoped he remembered it well. And she hoped it broke his goddamn heart. He deserved it, keeping her on like that. He could've fired her, but he didn't. She could've told some sob story about the breakup to any ear that would listen, but now if she left TV 18 voluntarily she'd have to explain exactly _why_ at every goddamned interview. TV 18 was legendary, it was Pulitzer Prize Winning Christopher Holden (don't make me _gag_)'s masterstroke, and journalists of all kinds were lining up to get in. You didn't quit a gig like that.

…you _couldn't_.

Fries' acceptance speech had been short but sincere.

"I must sank you, sank you from the bottom of my heart_. Danke, danke_," the German doctor bowed his head, tears leaking from his bright blue eyes. A smattering of applause. The audience was all fairly drunk by this point, and even with that accent they'd get along quite splendidly. Some of them, Cam couldn't help but note, were so smashed they'd've applauded the fucking _Joker_ if he'd been invited on stage.

"I am honored to receive such a gracious support from your vonderful community." More applause. "I stand before you all humbled and determined. With these monies ve can secure a hope for many, many children. With these monies ve can vork to make a better tomorrow." Standing ovation. Fries shook hands with both Pennyworth and Fox—and Bruce Wayne as well, she was surprised to note—and even went so far as to clasp the young man in a hug, accompanied by two very awkwardly received European kisses.

"Sank you, sank you…" the lapel mike was still on, and all those assembled heard the man's weepy words. Clearly, Fries was a man who lived for his work.

He was also apparently quite _private_. Usually at functions like these it was difficult to catch the mark for more than a couple seconds. Dr. Victor Theophil Fries, however, made himself immediately scarce. But she'd already covered the highlights of the evening, and wasn't afraid to spend time tracking him down. Security was adamant that she not pass, that only the Legacy staff and speakers could access the above floors. She sent Paul away for some Lifestyle and Society shots and that took care of that. The guard was ex-military, well-muscled, and immaculately groomed—all in all, one of her better opportune affairs. And what man could resist the promise of a clandestine blowjob from one of Gotham's most famous female faces? A quick trip to the restroom to straighten her skirt and rinse out her mouth, and she was back in business.

Doctor Fries had retired comfortably, watching the gala unfold below in one of the Legacy's many internal windowed office suites. He seemed a simple man, uncomfortable with the spotlight and the press. She'd soon change that. "Dr. Fries?"

He turned, bewildered. "Vat? Who is it?"

"Cameron," she extended a manicured hand. "Cameron Shaw, I'm a reporter with TV 18."

"Ah, yes," he caught sight of her badge. "Yes indeed, you are. I suppose you must come in."

"If you would be so kind."

"Vell, frankly I detest these…ah, interviews. But once one is done, there is no more fun, as I say. Yes, I like your company, that Good Morning Show. Let us get this over with as quick as ve can, _da_?" An inside, exclusive scoop on tonight's biggest, most reclusive celebrity. She might hate Christopher Holden, but there were moments like these where their association proved quiet useful.

"What can you tell me about yourself, Dr. Fries?"

"Please, call me Theo."

"Not Victor?"

"No, I detest this name. My first name. Too common," he waved her off. "Too…arrogant?"

"Indeed," she smiled. She'd come prepared with a couple of prompts, just in case. "What can you tell me of your heritage, Theo? If I recall right, you share a name with a famous chemist-"

"Ah yes, yes quite!" He launched into the story giddily. His was a Jewish family, not fortunate enough to make it out of Marburg when the Third Reich closed the borders. With the help of Professor Karl Theophil Fries , Frye became Fries, and his grandfather, then one of the man's students, had spent the better part of the war mascarading as both a lab assistant and a distant cousin. "My father, ven he vas born, Karl. And myself? Theo. Victor Theo, but Theo nonetheless."

"A fascinating family history," she consented with a gracious nod, trying not to shiver. It was damn cold in here, even with her woolen suit jacket—a situation she rarely encountered in climate controlled environments. Hadn't he noticed? "It's no wonder you fell in love with chemistry."

"Yes, yes. _Da_. This reaction, this Fries Rearrangement, it has been my study."

"Oh? And what can you tell our readers about this famed…rearrangement, as you put it?"

"It is…a change, ve can say. A change in a molecule to make one vay or another. And Fries, he discovered ve can use the cold to make this."

"So in sum, you can select this change by altering the temperature?"

"Yes, yes. Very beneficial for making the pharmaceuticals. Very good."

"It's an area of research that is doubly personal for you, I've been led to understand."

He nodded assent. "Yes. _Da._ Very personal. I am myself…afflicted with this condition. WAIHA—ah, how do you say? Autoimmune disease. It is little understood."

"And from my research, it appears there is no definitive cure for this condition."

"No, _Nein_. It is my hope that this grant, this research, it vill help me, and all those else who suffer."

"I suppose the question many of our readers will have is this: orphan drugs are expensive to develop and distribute. If the problem is temperature, why not simply move?"

"Vy not indeed? Can every family simply move? Vill there be jobs for them ven they arrive? No. This is not a life. This moving, you say, this is not an answer. I vill not accept this as the cure. I myself am a researcher, I must move to Gotham City vere it is so hot for so long every year. I must go vere the job is, not the vice-versa."

"And you do you manage to cope here in Gotham City? Considering your condition?"

"Very vell, very vell. I have found, yes, that I must keep my body temperature much lower than yours…how do you say? Farenheit scale? Two degrees lower than normal."

"And how can you do that? Full time?"

"Vell, that is an interesting subject. Firstly, I am using air conditioning to keep cold. In my home, my lab, even my car. I have a remote start, as they say. Second being my clothing. It is custom made. All synthetic. It ah, it does not retain body heat. It reflects all others."

"My readers will certainly be glad to know you're enjoying life in Gotham City, Theo. What about your wife. Does she have ties here as well? I spoke to an old professor of yours downstairs, Dr. Nora Fields. She told me about your college romance, and it seems your wife was quite the budding scientist herself before you stole her away. Is she here tonight to celebrate with you?"

"My…my vife," he dabbed his eyes. "Yes, Oona. She is…she is indisposed. But she is happy, would be happy, I sink, that ve have von this avard. Sank you, Miss Shaw, for your time. I do not vish to keep you from these festivities."

…and goodbye, Cameron reflected sourly. So the wife was a touchy subject, then. Family illness? Pending divorce? She made a mental note to dig a little further.

* * *

**Next Chapter: Bruce discovers Dr. Fries might have a dark and dangerous secret.**


	10. Grieving Postponed

**Wayne Enterprises Annual Medical Merit Ball**

**April 2029**

"Anything suspicious, sir?" Alfred Pennyworth was always the designated driver on these forays. And it was safe to talk—the young woman Bruce had picked up at the gala had put that million-dollar charity chardonnay to good use and was snoring quite unattractively.

"Suspicious, Alfred? Why, no. I was simply enjoying a pleasant night out on the town, buying my wine back as it somehow seemed to have made its way to the Legacy without me," Bruce returned. But while that tone was jocund, the eyes he could see in that rearview mirror were far from laughter. Bruce Wayne was solemn, somber, and sober.

It wouldn't do for him to see that worry. "Well, you never touch it, sir," Alfred continued that line of humor without a trace of concern in his voice. "It would be a shame to let such good vintage turn."

"Agreed. And no. I found nothing suspicious on Fries…"his young charged watched the slipping cityscape, expression shrouded in darkness. "It's what I _didn't_ find tonight that has me worried." There was anger—the Batman's anger—in that voice. This time the Englishman couldn't help himself. His grey eyes shot to the mirror much too quickly.

"And what is that, sir?"

"His wife. I asked around. No one's seen Oona Fries since she first came here five years ago. Alfred, I think he might have _murdered_ her."

…It wasn't healing. It wasn't grieving. And, Alfred Pennyworth reflected sadly, perhaps this investigation wouldn't prove to be such a welcome distraction for Bruce after all.

* * *

**Next Chapter: Medical Examiner Nora Fields reflects on her former students.**


	11. The Professor and Her Pupil

**Fries: A Family Legacy**

**by Cameron Shaw, Associated Press**

_Dr. Victor Theophil Fries is a man whose name, like his research, is truly a family affair. While last night's Wayne Legacy Foundation Annual Medical Merit Gala highlighted Fries' work, this reporter was able to get a more human perspective on the reclusive chemist. Dr. V. Theophil Fries is a German immigrant of Jewish heritage, and carries a surname with a surprising history. While some in the scientific circle are well aware of a chemical reaction referred to as 'the Fries' rearrangement', few outside that community know of its existence or its significance to Fries' exciting work and family history. Dr. Karl Theophil Fries, for which the reaction is named, also bestowed his name on Fries' family during the height of the Second World War…_

Gotham City Medical Examiner Nora Fields didn't often read the news. It was depressing, it was brash, it was irrelevant. That Goat Charlie was always rustling the pages of the Gotham Gazette and Gotham City Star, driving her mad. But this morning she made an exception. She'd known this Theo Fries a long time ago, one of her many graduate students. Him and the girl who'd become is wife. Oona, she thought the name was.

She scanned the article. No mention of their romance or even of their relationship. Truth be told, Fries had been a private person. In all likelihood, he was protecting her. The woman who would become Oona Fries had a family history of neuropsychiatric illness, and even fifteen years ago Nora had begun to notice the effects. The slight tremors. The tics. The loss of coordination. Constantly dropping things. Oona Fries' grandfather had died of Huntington's disease at age 57. Her own father had committed suicide when the symptoms began to show. It was a triplet expansion repeat disorder, the amount of that huntinton protein amplified with each new generation, that illness wreaking its devastation younger and younger. It was one of those diseases that had left her cringing as a medical doctor. In the era of the twenty-first century, where man had gone to the moon and the answer to any question was just free wi-fi away…the limited power of medicine was nearly paralyzing.

In all likelihood, Oona Fries was now dead or dying in a mental health facility. The psychosis that came with the disease's slow physical progression was even more unbearable. If Theo didn't want to share that with the press…well, it was perfectly understandable.

* * *

**Next Chapter: FBI Director Dan Murray receives a mysterious message.**


	12. Back in the Saddle Again

**Liam Holden Lane**

**April 2029**

WHERE IS OONA FRIES?

"Nutters," Daphe Michelle Stephenson-Murray muttered under her breath. At least this time it hadn't been photos. It wasn't as if she wasn't used to strange messages being left under their door. It was Gotham City, and as FBI Field Director, her husband garnered lots of attention. And nutjobs.

"For me, then?" Dan emerged from the shower, smiling. He'd needed time. Time, and a clean conscience. That Trisha Tanaka girl investigating Fear Night had gone from a terrorized immigrant girl to a celebrity sensation on Good Morning Gotham. That her husband's depression and erectile dysfunction had happened to disappear simultaneously couldn't've been a matter of mere coincidence. His hands had been tied, Daphne knew, so he'd gone to someone else for help.

…And he'd gone to Christopher Holden, if she knew any better. But the topic wasn't one that could be broached safely, even between the four walls of their own home. And as long as her Dan was back with her, Daphne didn't feel it merited discussion. And—as long as the Office of Homeland Security insisted on bugging them—she was going to give them something worth listening to.

"Who else?" Daphne purred.

"'Where is Oona Fries?'" Dan pondered aloud, steaming beads of water clinging to the dark hairs on his chest. "Fries? As in _Freeze? _That doctor all over the news?"

But she was ready _now_. That anonymous letter could wait. "You're the secret agent man," her silk robe slid slowly down her shoulders, fingers finding that terrycloth towel and pulling her man closer. "You tell me."

Robe, towel, and crumpled letter fell to the floor simultaneously. Followed—not long after—by the lovers themselves.

"I wonder if it's the Batman," Dan mused a little while later as they lay cuddling, contentedly entwined. After thirty years of marriage, she was used to his strange pillowtalk. Little did the Bureau know, but Director Daniel Thomas Murray did half his best work in bed.

She traced the hair on his firm arms, stroking it softly as she would Siam's smooth fur. Dan's hair was bristly, tickling, and she loved the way it pricked in the all right places against her bare skin. She'd missed him. Missed this. Missed _them. _

"I wonder why you _hope_ it's the Batman," Daphne whispered, lips lapping gently against his left ear.

"I don't hope that," Dan's mouth might have lied, but his body hadn't. He rolled her over, placed her gently on her back. The floor was murder, of course, for both their sakes', but she relished in this sudden spontaneity.

"Off the record?" she teased.

But her husband had grown far too restive for an answer.

* * *

**Next Chapter: ****As Zsasz stalks a local hospital, is anyone safe?**


	13. Miscarried Mercy

**Gotham United Methodist Hospital, Surgery Post-Op **

Pilar Nuñez told herself it was better this way. She'd noticed the spotting just three days before. But Pilar had gone to nursing school, didn't need to call the physician's office, didn't need to schedule an appointment or undergo a vaginal exam to understand. She knew the meaning, knew the odds, knew even bedrest was nothing more than a reassuring lie obstetricians told to mothers to help assuage their misplaced guilt. Threatened abortion. Seven weeks pregnant. No reason. No treatment. No cure.

Better to have lost the baby now, she consoled herself, now when it was just a little pink blot of tissue on a sanitary pad than a picture on a ultrasound screen. Better when it was a blotch of bloody gore than a fully formed child. She just wished it hadn't happened here. That she'd lost it at home, that Dirk had been there with her to share the news…

And what news. Anger. Anguish. Agony. Not her fault, not anyone's fault…just raw, pointless pain and pondering. Not news she would ever convey in a text or phone message…and her night shift at Gotham Methodist Hospital had only just begun. Eleven hours. Another eleven hours of feigning smiles and cleaning wounds and changing goddamned bedpans before she could tell a soul about the news that threatened to strangle her, drown her in grief. Another eleven hours before she could tell Dirk that his baby—that their baby—was _dead._

_No. No! Get it together, girl! _No tears, no weeping. Not yet. She had to be strong. Strong for both of them. All three of them. Dirk would take it hardest, had finally proposed to her when she'd told him, had already called up his mother in Metropolis to tell her the good news…

Pilar was devastated. But Dirk and his family would be all the more so. She was a woman. She was a _Mother_, for however brief a time. It would be her role to comfort them.

She wouldn't cry. Not here. Not yet. She'd save the tears—like that terrible news—for when their family was together.

* * *

The woman hid her misery well. But it was still there, raw and seeping through the edges. The tiny alterations in expression when she knew no one could see. But see they could. If they had looked, really looked, if they had cared to they could have offered her aching soul some solace.

But not a one of those uniformed zombies in their burgundy scrubs or their long white coats paid her pain any heed. Victor Zsasz felt pity for her. Pity for all of them.

…so he followed her into the pharmacy unit and gently slit her throat.

_There now. No more pain. This callous world will never hurt you again. It's my gift to you_, he whispered as she struggled in her pool of sanguine tears. _You're free. _

He held her close until she was gone, the scalpel-blade still hot with her blood when he finally slit his skin.

_Sixty-two._

* * *

**Next Chapter: Renee Montoya investigates the killing of a child in Koreatown.**


	14. The Vulture and the Victim

**Koreatown, Gotham City**

**April 2029**

Charming place.

_If you liked organized crime, TB and porn_, Renee Montoya sneered. And these KK syndicates? They were brutal. Latin Kings left your _mamá_ _sin hijo_, your_ hijos sin padre, y tu mujer una viuda_, but they were fucking alive, at least. But these Khongpae cocksuckers? Let's just say generations of overpopulation and crowding left the fuckers with little love for human life.

Her partner might be putting on a show of sleek professionalism, but she wasn't having any of it. "What do you have for us, Sergeant?" Crispus asked politely. Conversationally.

…yeah. Like talking as if nothing happened made it all go away. Fuck Homicide. Fuck Koreatown. Fuck Gotham City and fuck today.

"_Bratva_," the Vulture replied. "Nabokov, by the look of it." Sergeant Charlie Fields of GCPD Homicide was Nora's husband, the Kane County Coroner joint Gotham City Medical Examiner. In all her years on the force, neither she or Crispus—or anyone else—had ever beat him to a crime scene. The Vulture had been there when they arrived, and he'd be there long after the Detectives had left.

"Another kid?" Crispus grunted.

"Yeah. Another kid," Fields nodded, lips pressed. It'd be the fifth. It wouldn't be the last.

Renee set her jaw. "Who's the vic?"

"Ae-cha Park," the Vulture didn't need to check his notes, Renee noticed. "She was eight."

"We know her story?"

"Parents are illegals. Crossed the Korean Killers. Seems they're getting smarter about their loan Enforcement. Both parents alive and working, pays the debt back faster."

"So why the _Bratva_?" She cursed aloud. "Why fucking Nabokov? Why goddamned _Korea-town_?"

"Outsourcing, or so my buddies in Gang Taskforce say," Charlie Fields amended. "The KK might be brutal but they're got standards. Chechen did, too, before the Joker turned him to hamburger. Nabokov's a _Krysha_, one of their best. But he's out of control. Even the _Bratva_ prefer him behind bars."

"What's Nora say?" Crispus asked, still maintaining that cool, detached demeanor. He could do that stoic black man thing, make his face go all slack…it was why he wore those goddamned glasses. Ain't nobody could see what was in his eyes. Crispus had dark eyes. Angry eyes. And sometimes, 'mano, they just fucking _burned_.

"Same story. Eight year-old deceased Korean female, found dead in her bedroom. Time of death, 4 am. Peri-mortem bruising around the wrists, ligature marks on the neck, and…"

"Yeah," Renee spat. "We've read the VICAP files."

"I…I didn't really know who to call," Fields choked. "SVU or MCU…"

"So it's him, then," Crispus Allen sighed. "Get her back to the lab. We'll get SVU here with some translators, give some grief counseling. Have Nora run fingerprints to confirm. We'll keep canvassing until you're sure."

"We're sure," Charlie Fields affirmed. "Nora's sure."

"Let's make it official before we bring MCU on board," Allen countered. "We're here now. Eyes on the ground. Homicide's already established some rapport with the family, with these people. We wait around another couple of hours, we switch shifts or departments we'll loose any cooperation or trust."

"You're the boss," the Vulture tipped his uniform hat, and was gone.

"What the fuck we canvassing for, neh? We know who fucking did it," she growled. "Nabokov. That's who." Pedobastard had it coming. It was one thing to be a woman-hating rapist. Quite another to fuck and kill little kids. You kill a rapist…well, you ended up like Selina Kyle: behind bars. But the jury was still sympathetic, what with what Shillings did to her sister. But you kill a child-molester, guy like that Kevin Santy? Well, you might just get promoted. People had their theories…and her money was on _Paltron_.

"Because we're here," Crispus replied simply.

"Yeah, so? Pointless waste of time. That bastardo is long gone, 'mano. No way we catch him. Not here."

He lowered his mirrored sunglasses, sighing. "Has it ever occurred to you, Renee, why he chooses his victims here?"

"Fucker's a certified pervert and a Russian pedobastard," she gnashed her white teeth in exasperation. "So who gives a damn about his Asian fetish?"

"No, why he chooses them _here_," he emphasized. "In Koreatown. Chinatown. The Narrows."

"Bastard likes the way they look."

"But he could get them _anywhere_, Renee. Gotham's got a decent ethnic spread. Man could be targeting the richest neighborhoods, all the housing and apartment complexes around GSU. Daycares. But instead he chooses homes. And he chooses them here."

"These people, 'mano? They be immigrants. Illegals. Ain't going to talk to nobody. Korean Killers and _Bratva_ run this place. Ain't nobody gonna go to the police. I'm surprised we even got the call."

"We're lucky we did," Crispus grunted his assent. "Which begs the question—how many have we missed?"

She scowled deeper. Shook her dark head. "Makes me sick, 'mano. Jus' thinking about it makes me sick, you know?"

"We'll catch the bastard, Nay," he assured her. "We've just got to come up with a better plan to do it."

"Yeah," she snorted. "And how many kids gonna die until we do? You ask me, Paltron shoulda let that fucker die when she had the chance." That bastard Nabokov had jumped ship in GCPD restraints, chosen suicide over serving time. Lept off the Ferry on the way to the Narrows…and Detective Gwen Paltron had gone in after him. Renee hadn't been there, and you'd have to be fucking stupid to ask, but according to GCPD legend that _putaloca_ just kept repeating "he doesn't get to die like this" over and over again giving CPR while she should have been dying herself from hypothermia. But Vladmir Nabokov survived to laugh in her face, as his _Bratva _status got him landed in Arkham Asylum instead of Blackgate. He spent years in a cushy, padded cell instead of sodomized in a cell-block…until Fear Night set him loose.

Now Paltron was up for promotion…and she—like the rest of Gotham—was stuck cleaning up her shit. The injustice of it all made Renee taste bile.

Crispus Allen sighed and slid those sunglasses back up his broad nose. "Roger that, sister."

* * *

**Next Chapter: Bruce Wayne muses on the Batman's failings.**


	15. A Rational Realization

**Wayne Manor**

Another Zsasz. Another Nabokov.

_Another._

He'd been gone when those men had terrorized his city. Away in Bhutan, training.

Training for what? Bruce Wayne asked hollowly. The Batman was a killer. The Batman was _dead_. Dent was dead. Leob was dead. _Rachel—!_ Rachel Dawes was dead, too. All those things he'd hoped for, hoped to do, that symbol he'd wanted to become, Dent's death—no, it had been Rachel's death, ultimately—had washed it all away. Now it was as if he stood upon a stormy shore, the tide closing in about him, but with every step he took the sandy beach washed further into the waves. There was no retreat. There was no escape.

Zsasz. Nabokov. The Batman couldn't stop them. The Batman hadn't stopped them, he reminded himself. Brave men like James Gordon did. And had. And they would again. He couldn't get involved. Mustn't get involved. If he were to be caught, to be exposed…then the hope Gotham City had would have died with Harvey Dent.

Bruce Wayne couldn't stop them, either. But money for the Legacy could help him—and Gotham—sleep sounder. His grandfather kept a collection of antique and classic cars. His father had always meant to sell them, auction them off for charity. His mother had been working on arrangements even the morning of the day she'd died…

They'd sat in storage for years, collecting dust. Or rather shining brightly, he smiled grimly, if he knew Alfred Pennyworth at all. But Alfred was old, his grandfather—like his parents—was dead, and billionaire Bruce Wayne didn't need the Rolls Royce, Ford Model T, Lamborghini Miura or the myriads of others. The Legacy Foundation did. It would have to be bold. Brash. Crass. There'd be booze and strippers and most certainly some Girls Gone Wild-type antics involved…but in the end the money would go to a good cause. He'd have Alfred come up with a Hollywood, Metropolis, and Gotham City A-list.

…in the meantime? In the meantime he'd investigate this Oona Fries.

* * *

**Next Chapter: Detectives Paltron and Lawless discover that in the morgue, skeletons from the past come out of the closet.**


	16. Sins of the Fathers

**Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building**

**Office of the Medical Examiner**

It was still before seven AM when Detective Aaron Lawless joined her in the morgue. She liked Lawless. Tall. Tough. Intelligent. A former colleague, even. As Kane County Coronor/Gotham City Medical Examiner, Dr. Nora Fields had seen a smorgasbord of death. The killed and their killers. She went to City Hall and testified, as likely as not, unless the damn GCPD did their jobs and actually obtained a confession.

…with coerced being the much more likely.

But Lawless was good. Firm, but good. His methodology was goddamned meticulous, and his morality above reproach. In Gotham City, there was many a cop walking around with a body count. Plenty who adhered to the psychobabble that it wasn't their fault, it was all in the line of duty. Went to mandatory counseling until they repeated the lie often and sincerely enough they actually believed it. Not Lawless. He carried his count with him. And he would to his grave.

Lawless was honest. A cop always had a choice whether or not to pull the trigger, so Lawless seldom did. To Serve and Protect, sure; but he didn't hide behind a bronze GCPD badge when confronted by a grieving family. The Detective would always apologize, shoulder the responsibility, and he never swaggered off into the sunset to leave the families behind. The man still wrote them Christmas cards, for fuck's sake, and Nora Fields knew why. It wasn't exactly a secret: WATCHDOG's recruits were a matter of public record. Aaron Scott Lawless put four on her table the night he lost his medical license. Killed an entire family in that car wreck, and destroyed his own. He knew a thing or two about death. Grief. Redemption. Wore his stoic face and his bleeding heart like a red badge of courage. She respected him for it.

"How's the little one?"

"Ian?" the Detective asked, his voice, although pleasant, was a perpetual growl. Aspirating a windshield worth of glass would do that to a man. "He's fine. He's good. All good."

"You alright, Lawless?" She'd tried to warn him. Yesterday he'd brushed her off in impatient rage, then stopped dead in panic and plummeting doubt at the sight of the corpse. It haunted him, even now.

"Is anyone?" Lawless returned grimly, nodding towards the naked, open corpse of Pilar Nuñez. She'd been pregnant. Miscarried. But Lawless didn't need to know. She'd bury it in the text of the report. Grieving him unnecessarily wouldn't make him more objective. Wouldn't make him stronger, smarter, quicker on the draw. The details were sad. But the story needed an ending. Closure. And quickly. This was Zsasz' fiftieth victim…that they knew of. That more had gone unnoticed in the Narrows during Fear Night and the Joker's reign of terror Nora was sure. Her interns were still mulling through cold cases and John Doe's from the nineties, for fuck's sake.

"I look at that table, and I see my wife," the Detective choked. That she already knew. But his response demanded a reply. He needed out of that dark recess in his mind, where he still thought himself a killer.

…because he was. And that regret would eat him alive if he let it, even now.

"I look at that table and I see my husband."

That shook him. "Nora?"

"Charlie Fields. Detective, now. Major Crimes Unit. He's taking the Sergeant's exam, but I'm not willing to move. We'll see if that Old Goat gets it or not. The rate you're all retiring or dying…well, assuming he lives long enough to take it he's got a chance."

His tone turned placating. "Nora—"

"Don't 'Nora' me, Lawless," the little woman snapped. "I know the risks, and I damned well know the odds. My husband is fifty-seven and he's got eight years left until retirement. He's too stubborn to back down. I've known for a long while now my Charlie's not going to make it out of that meat grinder alive."

"I'm…I'm going to go for coffee," he said as way of thank you. Or apology. "Anything I can get you?"

"Danish. Cheese and cherries. The sweeter the better."

That elicited a smile, albeit faint, across his stubble-strewn face. "Aren't you diabetic?"

"Isn't that none of your damn business?" She returned good-naturedly. Lawless just shook his head, and left without a word.

But Lawless was a double-edged blade. As much as she appreciated his company, she dreaded what came with it.

More specifically, _who._ The morgue doors banged open without a trace of propriety. "Where's Lawless?" the brusque woman asked.

"Good morning to you, too," Nora said sweetly. "He went for coffee. He'll be back."

She nodded. Crossed the spotless room in three great strides. Eyed the naked, gutted corpse the same way one might browse meat at the butcher counter. Cold. Nastic. Indifferent. Nora could handle the physical presence of death, and the morgue held no fear for her. It was the psychology of the thing that made her somewhat squeamish, not the who, what, when, where or how but the _why_. And according to Dr. Quinzel, Detective Guinevere Paltron had the same sociopathy as a serial killer, a cop who could stare at the corpse of a victim with even less empathy than her killers.

"This our girl?"

"The Zsasz from yesterday. Pilar Nuñez, twenty-seven. RN at Gotham Methodist."

"Yeah," the woman snorted. "I got that bit."

But Nora wasn't about to be intimidated. "I had another one of yours in here earlier."

"Mine?" the taller woman asked.

"Ae-Cha Park, age eight. Third grader. A Nabokov in from Korea Town," Nora's smile was equal parts cyanide and sugar. "Same thing."

A dark scowl marred that already darken countenance. "I was _acquitted,_ in case you'd forgotten." She wasn't usually one to be petty, but Nora Fields prided herself in the quality of her work…and never appreciated being hoodwinked. Especially not by one of her own. Detective Paltron might have had little Johnnie Doe's best interests at heart…but Nora didn't approve of evidence tampering. Not when it sent the wrong person to prison. Not when an agent of justice used it to cover up the criminal. GCPD might have placed a bounty out on the Batman for killing Dent, yet here stood another vigilante, directly responsible for the violent deaths of at least seven…and that was just the ones Nora could prove. There were more, she was certain. Detective Gwen Paltron was a sociopath and a killer, a wolf in shepherd's clothing.

Dent, Loeb, even Jim Gordon had thought her perfect for WATCHDOG. Nora'd said it been a big mistake. She'd seen the bodies on her slab, the three men from the Devil's Workshop eviscerated and burnt to a blackened crisp, one with his raw genitals found in his esophagus. He'd been alive when she'd castrated him. The four women from Jane C. Arkham Memorial, their larynxes crushed, brains bashed open, shank wounds to the chest and throat with graceful precision, and that bare-handed peri-mortem decapitation. Gwen Paltron claimed she'd killed in self-defense, and in defense of that little boy. But she'd done so ruthlessly, effortlessly, effectively…and she'd staged the bodies for maximal impact.

Nora had been right about the Batman. She'd be right about this one, too.

"If it weren't for your heroics, _Detective_, that pedophile would've drowned two years ago. But you made certain he got to Arkham Asylum alive." Charlie had long ago confided she had the uncanny power to make any noun an expletive. Not that she needed it—Nora Fields had a veritable arsenal of vocabulary that could make even Arnold Flass blush. The difference was, she mostly used it around her _friends. _Even Jimmy Connolly had learned that polite professionalism from her was something to fear—and that boy wasn't the quickest on social cues, either.

"I'm not the one who set him loose," she bristled.

Paltron stood a solid six feet. Nora was three inches shy of five. But she looked down her nose all the same. "You were, however, the one who gave him the chance."

That earned a snort of menacing derision. "And here all this time I thought you disapproved of killing."

She smiled in the perfect picture of civility. "And here I thought you liked it."

"…Coffee?" Lawless asked from the doorway. "Sorry, am I interrupting?"

"No," Paltron drawled, deadpan. "Nora here was just taking time to explain to me what an awful person I was. But she's done now."

"Girls, girls," the Detective laughed. "You're both pretty."

Eyebrows were raised. Arms were crossed. Needless to say, the joke fell flat.

* * *

**Next Chapter: The WE Board receives an unexpected—and perhaps—unwelcome visitor.**


	17. The Lebanon Deal

**Wayne Enterprises**

**April 2029**

While it was hardly secret the "Wayne" of Wayne Enterprises was merely a figurehead, much like an antiquated European monarch, it was well publicized that the Wayne in question had a proclivity for missing official PR photos and being found in candid shots of Gotham City's most up-and-coming female celebrities. Indeed, Bruce Wayne's famous face made internet headlines on a near-daily basis for his Don Juan like courtships. His stunt three years ago with those two supermodels in the hotel water fixture had temporarily crashed google's servers. While "Two Girls, one Fountain" had been ever-so-delicately removed by the YouTube poster after deciding it breached Mr. Wayne's privacy (Vicky Vale put the official figure somewhere close to a two million dollar pay-out for WE, displaying surprisingly perceptiveness for a tabloid journalist), more drunken antics had followed, and the populace of Gotham City expected plenty more to come.

It used to be the paparazzi lined the steps of Wayne Enteprises, harassing employees on the daily basis, hoping for that fifty-thousand dollar shot of playboy Bruce Wayne. But the novelty had run its course, and now three years after his return, there wasn't a camera to be found.

…but Lucius Fox wasn't complaining. While Bruce's antics had been a good cover, they'd also wreaked havoc with international sales. Some nations and cultures were still uptight about those they did business with…and it hadn't been easy explaining to Saudi kings or the Middle East in general why business with Wayne Enterprises—even charitable or medical work—would be beneficial. But Lucius was tired of seeing Thomas' company represented in third world countries solely by munitions alone. He'd expanded PR efforts in Muslim nations—had even used his significant influence to attempt to stop the North Korean trade embargo—and he'd conversed with Bruce extensively on the subject of distancing himself from WE's more 'official' business. Certainly, Bruce should operate and investigate behind the scenes, and he was more than welcome at the fundraisers (he was, after all, a staple source of entertainment), but the less time he spent in the office, the better.

The antics had already taken their toll. Lost him that young woman. Alfred hadn't been loquacious on the subject, but Bruce was hurting, that much was certain. He didn't need to be two personas anymore, and the time off of official work might lend him more time for healing. He was satisfying his desire for vengeance with this Fries investigation, Lucius knew. He just hoped Bruce was seeking satisfaction in other areas as well.

He and Pennyworth were old. Old men who'd already had lives. Families. Bruce deserved—Bruce _needed_—time just to live. And not these one-night stands with Gotham's coquettish celebrities, either. Fox had, on more than one occasion, introduced him to an intelligent (and quite attractive) young recruit with the hopes that a real romance might blossom. The women were always more than willing—at times uncomfortably so—but Bruce subconsciously and stubbornly insisted on pursuing only those relationships that were just as superficial as they were toxic.

He'd seen pictures of last night's escapades. Some Karenna Marx, a young East European socialite who'd made his acquaintance at the Fries Fundraiser. They'd spent a few whirlwind days in the tabloid and gossip pages, with Vicky Vale spewing her usual filth. Young Ms. Marx, unfortunately, had one too many last night and had ended up posing topless on the hood of an instantly recognizable Rolls Royce. According to the Gotham City Siren—which he followed in macabre fascination and revulsion (as well for the restaurant critiques—Vicky Vale was certainly not the finest example a young woman could follow, but her column was a foodies' delight. He'd ordered the catering for today's luncheon from a local Brazilian fare that came highly recommended)—when confronted by his date's "public indecency", Mr. Wayne had quipped to a responding GCPD unit "there's nothing indecent there, officer." Out of common courtesy Fox had arranged to purchase the more revealing photos of Ms. Marx from the assembled paparazzi, only to be informed by her PR staff that such a prude gesture was bad for the young starlet's image.

Bruce had referred to her as a model/actress…but Marx's PR staff had hastily introduced him to the world euphemistically recognized as "adult entertainment".

…there went the Lebanon deal.

So it was, both personally and professionally, quite unexpected to see the younger man striding carelessly down the corridor at the monthly board meeting, tie loosened, buttons undone, and with the slick, purposefully unpolished stride of a man recently…well, of feminine acquaintance. "Mister Wayne!" Lucius Fox rose in both surprise and courtesy. "We weren't expecting you."

Bruce swaggered to the sumptuous buffet, helping himself to an iced green coffee dulce de leche with a wink and a smugness that made even Lucius feel every bit his age.

"No, indeed," Chairman Dale Hartigan said stiffly. "As your absence has been fully noted for quite some time."

"Ah, take it easy, Hartie," billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne propped his ostrich-skin loafers onto the laquered table-top, reclining in his reserved (and usually empty) chair. "I'm still a member of this board, aren't I?"

"As far as I'm aware," he chuckled. "And now, back to the business at hand…"

At which point, Bruce Wayne pulled out a cigar, clipped the end, and made to light up.

Lucius frowned, suppressing a chuckle. Bruce had never smoked, and if it weren't for his timely intervention, Thomas' son would be likely to choke on his own theatrics. "Mr. Wayne, I'm afraid you can't smoke in here."

"It's my goddamned building!" Bruce cried in petulant protest, rounding on the stuffy man beside him. "What is the point, I ask you, Hartie, of owning a goddamned building of you're not allowed to smoke in it?"

"The building belongs to Wayne Enterprises, I'm afraid," Fox continued mildly. "And the fire code belongs to the GCFD."

Bruce Wayne put the now-clipped cigar back in his case with a sigh of juvenile acceptance. "Someone go get me my goddamned check book."

That at least elicited a laugh out of most present, Chairman Hartigan notwithstanding.

"Now if you're done with your immature and disgraceful antics," the pharmaceutical rep blustered, face gone beet red. "The Board would move to—"

"I see this…Dr. Freeze is getting a lot of media attention," the reckless young man countered, flipping disinterestedly through the pages of the day's agenda. "Let's talk about him."

Hartigan looked ready to have an aneurysm. Ginger Wiggin, his unfortunately named yet in nowise unattractive Personal Assistant, took over quite smoothly. "Mr. Wayne, as you can see, that issue numbers 33rd on our pre-arranged program-"

"Yeah, Freckles. But I'm here _now,_" the youngest member of the board prompted. "So let's talk. Business now. Pleasure later?"

Hartigan was incensed, but the young woman only looked away demurely. Bruce was young, clever, good-looking and rich. He could well afford to avoid any sexual harassment lawsuit ever thrown his way. Not that most of the women minded—Bruce was intelligent enough to use verbal, rather than physical, approaches. And what happened after was entirely consensual (Not that he or Alfred entirely approved, mind you.).

"As you wish, Mr. Wayne, as you wish," Lucius continued pleasantly, shrugging with sheepish submission to the gathered WE board. "Is there any certain aspect of Dr. Fries' work or public relations liaisons you would wish to discuss?"

"Yeah. He's brought in a lot of media attention for us and the Legacy," Bruce said in a grandiose swoop, eying Miss Wiggin's reaction. "And he's helping _kids._ So let's do more." And indeed, the auburn PA's posturing had shifted subtly from demure professionalism to a coy crossing of the legs.

Hartigan, it appeared, had taken great offense, with those flabby jowls turned even further down into a scowl….and not only by the slighting of the sacred board agenda. The Lili Pharmaceuticals CEO was in his late sixties now, a goatish, greedy sort of man who made former Wayne Enterprises CEO William Earle seem a saint in comparison. Dale Hartigan continuously surrounded himself with women half his age—women like Ginger Wiggin—in an attempt to look and feel powerful. No doubt he paid them well for their extra-professional duties, of course…but Bruce Wayne could obtain such clandestine favors for free without the costly offer of a raise.

…and did it ever rankle. As exhausted as he was about the Lebanon deal, Lucius couldn't help but delight in the not-so-subtle displays of machismo present before him. Old Hartigan had not idea what he'd gotten himself into. "Now see here! We've only just finished the Medical Merit Ball-"

"Yeah. But that's stuffy and posh and mostly a PR stunt. I was thinking something a little more scientific…and social. Cookout. Campfires. Cocktails. Weiners. Hamburgers. Oh, and those fancy cucumber sandwich things—my butler's British, what can I say," he sent a broad grin to his now-rapt audience of one, curling auburn tresses slowly through her fingers. "Nice, relaxed, a family affair. No big press or publicity. Something for the grandkids," Bruce nodded chivalrously in his direction.

…Nichelle and Micheala? Or—

Ah. "And spouses?" Lucius returned, mildly as ever. An excuse to force Oona Fries out of the woodwork at last.

"Exactly!" Bruce emphasized, taking his feet off the table and leaning forward excitedly. "A family affair! My place? You're all invited."

"The Board?" Lucius questioned, bemused.

Bruce shook his head. "The employees!"

Now that announcement was met with stunned silence. Wayne Enterprises was a paragon of industry, with over ten thousand employees…and that was just the ones in the Greater Gotham City area. Such a celebration would easily cost the Bruce Wayne Trust Fund several hundred thousand dollars, a figure that hadn't escaped Ms. Wiggin's calculating mind. She'd relaxed, reclined into the chair, sending Bruce a smoldering come-hither gaze that would have proven quite unhealthy had it been turned in his direction.

"Sometime next month. Give my Butler some time to make those sandwiches…" Bruce chuckled. "You'll be free, right, Freckles?"

"I'll have to check the Chairman's schedule,"came her throaty reply.

"The Chairman just RSVP'ed," Bruce said pointedly, cutting over Hartigan's protests. "So is that a yes?"

Fox had an inclination it wasn't the party they were discussing.

Ginger Wiggin confirmed his suspicions with a sultry smile. "I do believe it is, Mr. Wayne."

"Well, that was great," Bruce proclaimed. "A great session. Loved it, great work, everyone, Hartie. Meeting adjourned!" And with that he bowed them all out…requesting a private audience with a certain Personal Assistant who looked not-at-all reluctant to remain behind. Indeed, Lucius Fox hadn't known a silk blouse could be unbuttoned quite that quickly.

"A…a rather touching gesture," Jaidev Mittal—of item number one on the Board's official agenda, fresh off an eighteen hour Air India flight, a representative of Mittal Manufacturing currently seeking the coveted contract for WE's medical electronics—offered timidly as the double doors slammed shut on the kissing couple.

"Or a side effect of _amphetamines,_" Hartigan scoffed, his PA having hereby having officially tendered her two weeks' notice.

Fox could only sigh. It looked to be he'd have to take the Board out to lunch. Fortunately, he did know of this charming Brazilian joint just around the corner…

* * *

**Next Chapter: Dan Murray interrogates his first suspect in the disappearance of Oona Fries.**


	18. Domesticity

**Liam Holden Lane**

**April 2029**

Fishing. Upstate Maine. Daph had banished him there for a much-needed four day weekend with Jack. The salty old veteran had sat out on the rented deck the entire time, guzzling whiskey with a morose vehemence and gutting fish with callous indifference. Other friends might have had reason for concern, but Dan was used to the grump's antics. Fishing was Jack McClain's catharsis, and the sea-air and the open night sky and the permeating reek of slightly spoiled fish that clung to the old skiff did him a world of good that a shrink could never coax out of him.

To each his own, the FBI Director thought.

Day five saw them safely back to Gotham City, an ice chest apiece stuffed to the brim with frozen fillets of salmon, smelt, trout, and lobster. Dan fished, sure; but he disapproved of any practice that put an animal alive into a boiling pot. Him and Jack killed with a club to the head or a quick, clean decapitation. Dan knew of some fishermen who just let the bilge out of the hold, suffocated a hundred fish together in a dark black pit. That wasn't right. Wasn't ethical. Wasn't sporting.

He'd managed to sneak in without waking Daph, a miracle in itself since it roused the kids. Otto and Olivier greeted him at the door, their gorgeous, streaming tails sweeping large swaths of destruction and thudding against the walls. Siam only blinked, damned old cat, and led him to the kitchen, staring demandingly up from his bowl. All that damned cat ever did was eat, shed, and piss. Thing was nearly twenty years old, now. Dan figured he'd earned it.

"Alright, alright," Dan laughed, "Dad's home, everybody." He pulled freeze-dried treats from jacket pockets, wild-caught venison liver and jerky he ordered from a hunter upstate. Same place they got the antler, hoof chews, and bones. Daph insisted the kids got fed a raw diet, and she made all their meals at home. She'd always wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, and if she spoiled their 'kids', well, he couldn't blame her. Two AKC Golden Retrievers and a Himalayan, however sociable, couldn't make up for the pack of kids she'd once hoped to have. He'd brought up adoption, fostering, even IVF…but she'd said no. Didn't want to insult him, and now she was far too old.

…which was a shame. Daniel Thomas Murray would've loved to have kids. And it was his fault they couldn't.

The two goldens sat, pretty as you please, and he scratched their chins as they took the treats. Olivier, with grace, and Otto with the deft greed of a kid offered candy. He laughed.

He unpacked the cooler in the kitchen, quiet as he could with Otto constantly underfoot, while his siter laid with grace, chin on her paws, looking disinterestedly at the goings-on. Siam dragged himself up into the cooler and began ripping at the butcher's paper with his claws. But the cold was murder on his old arthritic joints, and he gave an indignant hiss and stalked away.

"That's what you get," Dan told him, putting a small smelt with the spinal cord neatly transected on the stovetop to steam. He'd brought fresh, greasy bones for the dogs, but the cantankerous old feline would get his own special treat. Dr. Preschant said his kidneys were going—they'd given him a good nine lives and nineteen years—and he and Daph could perhaps slow the process somewhat by restricting protein, but the cat was old, damnit, and quite accustomed to a certain standard of living. They'd discussed it at length—he was their first child, afterall—but even Daph had tearfully agreed to simply spoil him until he passed.

They still might do peritoneal dialysis, when the time came to it. If he was still up and active, and not in too much pain. Cat was already on insulin and narcotics, and the laser therapy and massages seemed to take the edge off the joints. So as long as the damned old thing was still jumping on counters and into coolers, Dan could live with the expense. He might curse and complain about his constant shedding and clawing, but truth be told the thought of the son of a bitch dying brought the prick of tears to his eyes. Thing wasn't a kitten anymore, he'd had a grand old life, and Dan didn't want to see him suffer.

He just hoped when the moment came, he'd be strong enough. He liked Naveen Preschant, trusted him, thought of him more as their pediatrician than a veterinarian. The doc was kind, had a way with and a true compassion for animals. Still did house-calls, for fuck's sake, for births and…and palliation. It came as a small but welcome comfort to know their old cat would get to die at home.

"You smell that?" he asked, putting the freshly-prepared fish down. Otto's mouth was slick with slobber, and even Olivier gave a faint whine, but it was a mark of respect—or fear—that neither dog moved between the sauntering feline and his prey. Siam might be old, but they remembered the days when he'd tear the shit out of them. Even now, Dan had no doubts the Himalayan could still do some serious damage…and Otto and Olivier apparently felt the same.

Dan straightened, stretching his back. He wasn't as young as he once was, and these fishing trips were beginning to take their toll. He'd missed his posturepedic office chair while on deck and in the gritty cabin. He also missed his bed. And the woman in it, he thought, eying the bedroom door to make sure he hadn't disturbed her.

WHERE IS OONA FRIES?

There were another five identical notes on the kitchen table, same as last week's. A letter for every day he'd been gone. No signature, no sender, nothing. Whoever was sending them had been quite persistent…and _cautious. _The paper was plain copy, and the note had been written by typewriter. No laser ink identifiers, no way to trace. This was old school, professional, Cold War espionage tactics. The building footage from the first day had revealed only a hooded figure, with a hat, dressed to avoid security footage. His door had been the final drop…but there'd be more. Dan was certain of it, a disconnected chain to separate him from the handler.

Olivier's ears perked up, and she turned her head with a soft whine. A low growl rumbled through Otto's throat. His teeth were barred.

Dan pulled the Glock 27 from the small of his back. There was someone at the door. The mysterious sender?

He crept silently along the wall, Olivier slinking behind him. Otto remained at the end of the hall, hackles raised, his face a mask of fury. Dan raised a hand, signaled Olivier to stay. She sat, quivering.

And sure enough, there came the slow, scraping sound of paper jammed under the metal frame. In two quick steps, Dan flung the door open. A teenager went fleeing down the hall.

Otto careened by him, knocking Dan to the floor.

"Otto, no!" he shouted, but it was too late. The dog ran the length of the hallway before Dan could even stand. In an effortless leap he'd sunk his teeth into his victim, shaking his head with vehemence. "Get him offa me!" the sender was screaming. "Get him offa me!"

"Otto, leave it!" the golden fell to the floor, but his fur still stood on end and his gums were dripping hate. "Inside!" Dan ordered. "Inside!" The dog stalked around him, eying him with malice. Olivier was cringing inside the doorframe.

The sender was back up and on his feet. _Oh no you don't_, Dan thought, catching him with a tackle and slamming him to the wall, twisting one arm behind his back. Kid put up a hell of a fight. Twisting, shrieking, cursing. Down the hallway, front doors were opened curiously.

"Inside!" Dan barked again, and his neighbors, unlike his dog, didn't hesitate to obey. He had an authoritative voice, and they knew what his job was…and fuck it, nobody in Gotham City was stupid enough to argue with a man brandishing a gun.

A fact that became quickly obvious to his captive. The young man ceased his struggling. "Get the fuck offa me," the perp whimpered.

Dan eased his grip. But only slightly. "Who sent you?" Dan demanded.

His answer was a quick kick to the shins. Just enough to really _hurt_. "Piss off, you perv!"

"C'mon, bud, I'm not going to hurt you."

"You fuckin' blind?" his suspect spat. "I'm a _girl_."

Startled, Dan wheeled her around.

An Aggressive, by her dress. And a lesbian, if the linked female tattoos on the wrist he was holding were to be believed. "Yes, of course," his grip loosened reflexively. Dyke or not, dressed as a man or not, he'd suddenly become just as gentle as if she'd been his own daughter. "I just had some questions, that's all."

"Yeah. Well you can shove 'em up your ass, that's what," she scowled, rubbing her chaffed wrist where he'd inadvertently hurt her. The sleeve of her stained black hoodie was shredded and slick, but Otto's bite hadn't drawn blood. Good.

"These notes…" Dan stepped back to give her some space. "what do they mean?"

She eyed him coolly, eyes flicking to the Glock with contempt. "You a cop?"

"FBI."

She crossed her arms as he re-holstered the gun. "Unless you arresting me, Po-po, I ain't got nothin' to say."

"Did someone pay you to send them?" Dan insisted.

"You interrogating me?"

Dan sighed. Pulled a fifty out of his wallet.

"Fuck, man, that smell nasty. Smell like week-old pussy, that's what."

He'd slopped chum bucket water all over the bills buying bait at the mom-and-pop tackle store, and his wallet—like his clothes—still smelt like fish. "Smell might not be nice," he held the bill up to the light so she could see it, "but the money's good. We have a deal?"

She snatched it hungrily with her chipped black nails. "Don't know nothin' about no notes. Jus' this one here."

So there'd been more than one sender. Or a sole someone expertly covering their tracks. That made the anonymous source either more credible…or a paranoid schizophrenic. It was Gotham City, and neither would surprise him. "What's it mean?"

But the girl only raised her eyebrows.

Dan offered up another fifty. "

"Not a fuckin' clue," she folded the bill expertly between her fingers, a smug smile now pulling at her lip piercings. She was taking him for all he had, and they both knew it.

"Who gave it to you?"

"I look like a fuckin' snitch?" she pouted.

"No," Dan sighed. She couldn't be more than fourteen, fifteen at most. Hair short-cropped, asymmetrical, dyed jet-black with a purple streak by her face. She had a tear-drop tattoo beneath her right eye that looked jailhouse in quality. She may have done it herself. He pulled another fifty from his wallet, knowing more than likely she'd just spend it on drugs. But he couldn't force her into rehab, couldn't invite her inside for the hot meal she needed—that Trisha Tanaka fiasco had taught him that much. Right now this money was all the help he could give, and even then he'd have to log it as official CI expense with the Bureau. "You look hungry. Here."

Her dark eyes flashed. "I look like I need some fuckin' charity to you?"

"You look like you could use a decent meal," Dan explained softly. "And a cigarette." Her rumpled, unisex clothes were saturated in the acrid scent of smoke.

She made a tutting sound, almost disbelief, but she didn't reach for that cash. Street kids and runaways like her were always suspicious of kindness. They had to be.

"You a terrible cop, you know that?"

"It's been said," he smiled ruefully.

"I don't do no charity," she returned his pity with scorn. "You drop your pants, I'll give you a suck. Another fifty, the wife can watch."

He'd been just as asinine when he was her age, unwilling to accept adult help from any quarter. But her words still stung, and there was no denying it wasn't a child's eyes looking back at him. The world had hardened her, and she'd be lucky to escape Gotham City alive. His help—well meaning at best, foolish, naïve, and enabling at worst—was both far too little, and far too late. "Just take the goddamned money before I change my mind," Dan growled. He threw the bill at her feet and walked away, slamming the apartment door between them.

He leant wearily against the inside of the frame, ignoring Otto's frustrated attempts to seek attention. Olivier paced, and began to whine. The dogs were perceptive, and they'd picked up on his anger and stress and internalized it. It wasn't fair. Wasn't right. That idiot Otto had almost got a bite charge out of that mess, and the judges in Gotham City were getting stricter.

"Hey, kiddos," Dan sank to his knees, pulling both of them close. "Everything's fine, okay? Let's get another treat…"

He sat helplessly on the floor, surrounded by the two panting dogs, while Siam just clamored onto the kitchen counter to lick the fish pan and sent him a defiant stare. And _blinked_, the bastard.

"You're just lucky you're old," Dan informed him while running his fingers through the soft tufts behind the canine's ears. "Or I'd squirt your ass the hell off of there." But the spray bottle was high out of reach on the fridge, and truth be told, hadn't been filled since Otto's chewing stage had ended. The siblings had both arrived at twelve weeks old, but even from puppyhood Olivier had possessed a well-mannered, genteel feminine grace. And Otto? Otto was just a stupid slob. Dan referred to them mentally as his little lady and his perpetually teenaged son. Aloud he called them Pretty Girl, and Big Guy (or sometimes simply Shithead…but only in jest and when Daph was out of the house.).

He cooled down with a beer from the fridge, sat at the kitchen table, staring at those strange messages in the hopes they'd all make sense. Oliver put her head in his lap, and he stroked her silky fur. Sighing, he phoned his top analyst.

"Eddie? It's Danny…yeah, listen, I need a favor. Get me everything you can on an Oona Fries. That's O-O-N-A, F-R-I-E-S."

"Like that doc in the paper?" Nashton's voice oozed curiosity.

"Could be," Dan grunted. "And made it a priority." It was superfluous with Nashton. Man made everything a priority. Like he couldn't sleep until he'd solved the puzzle, however damn mundane it was.

Nora Fields office was next. He asked about a death certificate, and her intern, Taylor, was it? Said they'd look into it. "Today," Dan insisted.  
"Yes, Mr. Murray."

His phone rang again before he could even hang up. He didn't have to look at the number to know it was Nashton. "What gives, Eddie?"

"Oona Fries. Born Oona Chapman, Connecticut, 1992. Married Victor Theophil Fries in 2015, PhD in Crystalline Cryobiology from Luthor Science and Tech, 2018. Dual US-German citizenship."

"Anything else?"

"What's this about, Danny?" Eddie couldn't help himself.

"Possible missing person report," Dan said, still scratching under his little lady's chin. "Just preliminary."

"Yeah? Well check with customs and immigration. Could be she's just overseas. Sometimes with more than one passport our ICE records get fucked," Eddie laughed. "So much for Homeland Security, huh?"

Dan forced a chuckle. "Will do, Eddie. Thanks."

"Nashton, over and out," the analyst quipped. The line went dead.

He tried a pal in TSA, who knew a guy in ICE. It was a stretch, and a fifteen minute wait of irritatingly upbeat elevator muzak, but in the end the transfer finally got through, and this ICE contact only confirmed his suspicious. Someone desperate enough to drag the FBI Director of Gotham City's Field Branch into a missing person's hunt would have already done their homework. Oona Fries had two passports, one US, one German. She'd played the passport switch-over several times, on trans-Atlantic flights, but had never been tagged as a terrorist threat. Last recorded data was connecting flight to Heathrow under her German passport in 2023, followed two weeks later by a return trip under the auspices of the USA.

Six years missing, and she'd been in the USA when it happened. Dan found it hard to believe no one else had gone looking. Girl had to have family somewhere…

He rang the Hartford Field Office, getting a bubbly female cadet who seemed suspiciously enthusiastic. Then again, it was probably the first productive thing she'd gotten to do all week. "No priors, she's not listed on any of our watch lists…ooh!" she squealed. "I've got a missing persons report filed under that name!"

"When?" Dan's heart quickened.

"October 2023. Filed by an Alice Chapman, her mother."

"Who investigated?"

"Local PD, an officer…Grumpkins. Todd Grumpkins."

"Transfer me," Dan ordered.

"Yes, sir!" Poor kid. Probably the first real case she'd had in weeks, and she was excited about her contribution. He remembered his own grunt days, but he'd been stationed here in Gotham. Always plenty to do…most of it harrowing, all of it hell.

"Grumpkins," a terse bass voice boomed.

"Dan Murray, Gotham City Field Director," Dan began as a way of introduction. "I'm inquiring about a missing persons report filed for Oona Fries. You were the lead detective in her case."

"Fries? Yeah. I remember it. Freaky one."

A vivid memory of a missing persons case, six years later? Something had to have been awry. "Our office indicates it was filed by a family member. Could you put me in contact with the mother?"

"Afraid not," the detective grunted. "Died five years ago in an industrial cooking accident, not long after this report was filed."

_A what—? _"The hell is an industrial cooking accident?" Dan gaped.

"Nitrogen. Liquid nitrogen. They use the stuff in confectionaries, apparently. Chapman owned a small baking and chocolaterie, stayed late. Found dead by her employees the next morning, get this, frozen solid. Frozen fuckin' solid. Some poor sap even tried to take her pulse, her head shattered. Just fuckin' _shattered _the second he touched her."

"Anything suspicious?"

"Come off it, man," Todd Grumpkins berated him. "Woman froze to death in her own kitchen. Shattered heads? _Of course_ we fuckin' investigated."

"And—?" Dan asked.

"And diddly shit," the detective spat. "My Captain closed the case."

"But you didn't," Dan could hear the bitterness in his voice.

"You didn't hear this from me, but I liked the son-in-law for it. Alibied as out of town. Story was strong enough to hold...but that little sumbitch was hidin' something. Could feel it in my bones."

Dan thanked him for his time. Requested a copy of the report and any case notes be sent to his office. They had a case. Eddie'd be thrilled.

…Dan was just exhausted.

He tossed the kids some frozen deer femur, still raw and meaty, and called it a day even though the Sleepless City was just waking up. They'd been up all night cleaning their final catch, and made the drive home non-stop. Jack McClain was twelve years older than he was. _How the hell did that old bastard still do this?_ Dan wondered.

Daph was still sleeping, sprawled on the bed with his pillow pulled close. She'd always done that. Said she missed his smell when he was away. He sat on the edge of the mattress, ran a hand through her mussed hair, and she started from her sleep. He hadn't meant to wake her. "Shh, love, it's only me." His eyes and joints were aching for sleep, but right now he stunk of fish and faintly of second-hand cigarette smoke. He kissed the back of her head. "Go back to sleep. I'm going to take a shower."

But Daph rolled over with a mischievous grin, face lined and sagged. "Mind if I come?"

She wasn't pretty anymore, not the svelte young thing with the firm breasts and tight buttocks he'd once fell in love with at a Springsteen concert back in high school. He'd been too shy to hold her hand, and she'd been standoffish, but something that night at the concert had sent her into a hot explosion of dancing fire and they'd made out then made love in the cab of her dad's pick-up. He'd been her first, and she'd been his…and his only, and his last. Now she had cellulite and crows feet, and the skin on her neck had started to stretch and thin from years of reckless abandon and afternoon sun.

No, his Daph wasn't young, wasn't pretty anymore…but she was still goddamned beautiful. And she was _his_.

Dan kissed her again, this time on the lips. "Not at all."

* * *

**Next Chapter: When confronted with video evidence of his fiance's cheating, Chris has to face a difficult decision.**


	19. Difficult Decisions

**Harvey S. Dent City Center Park**

**April 2029**

He missed her.

She'd walk by him in the halls of TV 18, or he'd see her from across the parking lot in the morning dark before dawn. For a moment he'd want to run, call out to her, tell her something funny he'd seen…then he remembered they weren't together anymore. They hadn't been in a long time.

Chris Holden felt bad for what he'd done to her. Cam had betrayed him, shat on him, but he'd returned that spite by keeping her on. It wasn't the worst thing a man had ever done to his ex, no…but it was low. Mean-spirited. He was a better man than this. It wasn't sporting, it wasn't gentlemanly, it wasn't right. He ought to apologize…then he'd see her in the halls and she'd make a barbed comment, she'd sneer, sashay away in a skirt so tight it left nothing to the imagination…and he hated her. All his pity gone. Cam was what she was. She brought out the worst in him. She labored to bring that side out of him. Let her.

He didn't miss her, Chris reminded himself. He'd never known her. Had fallen in love with a version of herself that she'd let him see. Strung him along…for his money? Fame? Or was it all just 'for the stories' as she'd claimed? He didn't know. He didn't want to. Having to get tested for STD's was humiliating enough. He wouldn't allow that woman—or any other— to manipulate him ever again.

He also missed _sex._ But Natalie Hendricks had been…shy? Scared? She was attracted to him, he was certain. Her stammered silence, flushed face, sweaty palms and dilated pupils left no doubt about that. She'd said six months, but why? To scare him away? To give him time to heal? To reject him without having to bear the responsibility? It'd been only weeks since their awkward encounter, and six months felt like an eternity when he walked past the clubs on a Friday night, when Singles ads popped up on his internet browser, when women who knew him by face, reputation and finances went out of their way to get themselves noticed. He'd never been into porn—it just felt so crass—but he was a hot-blooded American male and he wasn't above going solo over some scantily clad advertising, although he'd feel equal parts shame and pleasure. Nat was short, petite, socially inept and unkempt. She wasn't opinionated, fierce, or independent like Rachel Dawes or Cam, but she was the nicest girl he'd ever known. All his relationships with complex, multi-layered women had ended poorly. He wanted someone sweet, someone simple.

Natalie Hendricks might not look like Vicky Vale, but she deserved a man who could wait six months without resorting to sex with strangers. Or hand jobs. Or strange sleeping masturbatory fantasies that got increasingly less selective over time. He'd never been raised religious, but sex still…what, embarrassed him? Was that the right word? Perhaps that initial humiliation of puberty and ill-opportune boners still haunted him, those awkward years when any touch from a female figure could send him into a sweaty neurosis, when his mother's hugs grew awkward and uncomfortable rather than a comforting haven. And this prolonged celibacy post-break up felt like a return of that fumbling developmental state.

Trisha Tanaka was too polite to say anything, although she'd noticed. She'd get suddenly shy, and only then would he realize he'd been staring. Beck, on the other hand, thought it was goddamned hilarious. Trisha would squirm uncomfortably or give a cough, and Beck?

Rebecca May James would start fondling herself, just ever-so-subtly, until he noticed. And sometimes it took an embarrassingly painful amount of time—and groping—before he realized it wasn't in his imagination. Then James would snort herself sick, dissolving into a hiccoughing fit and tears with the sage advise to go "get some". She'd even started the "countdown of shame", timing his mental absences while gazing at her figure. His longest time? Thirty-six straight seconds.

She teased him, but she wasn't a Tease. She'd seen the social pressures on him and Cam. Knew he was attractive. Knew he was a celebrity. Knew he was rich…and knew she absolutely wanted nothing to do with that. They'd laughed and joked about the need to "repopulate the ginger race", but freckle-faced, milk-skinned Beck with the slightly disproportionate shoulder/pelvic girdle ratio had him adamantly friend-zoned. He was certain: he'd asked.

"Any girl who ever dates you becomes a public figure," she'd shrugged. "I want to stand on my own two feet. You took a chance on me, gave me a job fresh out of college, and I'm grateful, but I want my career to be about my abilities, not my relationships."

"It wouldn't have to be that way."

"You're lonely," she shook that magnificent mane of tight-wound curls. " You're sad, and you're looking for comfort close to home. I'm sorry for what happened to you, Chris, I really am. You're the most stand-up guy I know and you deserved better than Cam…but you're my friend, you're my boss, and you're _trouble_."

"Trouble?" He'd pondered thickly.

"_The Gotham City Siren_ just named you the fourth most fuckable man under forty, pardon my French," Beck said. "And Vicky Vale knows Gotham women."

"Fourth most wha—?" Chris felt his face grow hot. "I mean, only fourth?"

"Bruce Wayne, Greyson Richards, Tyrell Stallone," she grinned. "It's hard to argue with that."

"I'm fourth after a drunken playboy, a pasty Governor, and a meathead football player?" Although he'd give them Stallone. The Gotham Knight's Quarterback had a handsome mulatto face, slick dreads, a sleek, lean body in skin-tight training gear and olive eyes that screamed ladykiller from a mile away. Chris was a 100% pureblood heterosexual male—even during his adolescence he'd had no inclinations to experiment—but Tyrell Stallone? Even he had to admit a mancrush that wasn't based on the solely intellectual regard in which he held Governor Greyson Richards, Harvey Dent's cousin and protégé.

But this morning he had more pressing things to worry about than his flustered sexuality. Just last night there'd been another Zsasz attack at a local hospital. And a little girl—the details hadn't been included in the initial press release—had been raped and killed in the Narrows. Commissioner "Honest Jim" Gordon had refused all questions with a mild "no comment", but the man looked more worn than Chris had ever seen him. The Joker had been terrifying, yes; but the Joker was a terrorist. Had reasons, however insane or twisted they were, for doing what he did. Vladmir Nabokov and this Victor Zsasz were just more pointless, meaningless violence with no closure, no purpose, no healing. And—this was the hardest part—they'd been in custody before.

Every killing was another nail in the coffin of the GCPD's credibility.

The Dent statute may have culled the mob tenfold, and ceased the stranglehold organized crime had on the Sleepless City, but as the days turned to weeks turned to months, it was the unorganized crime, the unfolding chaos, that threatened to tear Gotham City asunder. The Narrows still lay in the ruins of Fear Night. People were panicking. Businesses collapsing. Houses foreclosing. White flight in Gotham had never been so bad. And there was a mob, a swarming, growing mob protesting before the gates of Arkham Asylum, calling ever louder for the Joker's blood. Nabokov and Zsasz had never made so much as a newspaper interview, yet their infamy was spreading faster than the Joker's broadcasts ever had. The media hype, that jostle to sell another inch of print in a rapidly digitizing world, was gearing Gotham's streets for a vigilante bloodbath. There'd already been that gruesome business with Brian Douglas and then the self-purported "Bat-men" last year. Chris didn't want to imagine the sort of urban war that might break out if something wasn't done to assuage the public's now palpable paranoia.

…not that he himself wasn't taking precautions, either. He had a panic button in the office, car, and home, and—he'd never admit it—he'd changed the parameters of a paramilitary bodyguard's orders to guard Natalie Hendricks night and day. Nat would never know it, but her less-than-charming grizzled and grumpy neighbor across the street was none other than Benyamin "Binny" Abner, an ex-Mossad agent who may or may not have spent some time as a deniable asset and an international assassin for the Isreali government. Chris hadn't been happy with the choice, had considered Binny's silence on Cam's innumerable affairs to be equal to treason, but the Isreali remained nonplussed.

"Seems to me my orders were to protect her from someone trying to break down that door," Binny mumbled from behind the pages of the Gotham City Star as Chris stretched against the pre-arranged bench in his jogging clothes. Binny was like Mad Eye Moody, that Rowlings creation from his youth: his life motto was you could never be too paranoid. "Not tattle on who she let inside."

"Any of those men could've hurt her!"

"I made sure they were unarmed before I buzzed them inside."

"They still could have killed her."

"And I was listening and watching the entire time."

"Watching?" Chris felt a lump rise in his throat.

The Isreali folded that newspaper, checking his watch with the disapproving eye of a businessman. "I like my toys."

He flushed. "Just tell me you destroyed the films."

"Encrypted," Binny grunted. "In case they were needed for evidence."

…Evidence. He could ask for them, Chris realized. Publish them. Punish her, humiliate her, shame her. He could ask, and Binny Abner wouldn't blink. That was the thing about Private Security—they never judged, never batted an eye. They were used to sickness, so long as the money was good. The decision not to was much harder than he'd ever admit to himself. Harder than it ever ought to have been. He looked down at his feet, swallowed that globus of emotion and self-doubt. "Just make sure no one sees them."

The Isreali only nodded.

"Including me!" Chris called to the wiry man's retreating back (which defeated the purpose of their clandestine meetings. Damn it, he used to be good at this!). It was a good thing, he reflected bitterly on his grueling morning run, that his days as an investigative journalist for PRODIGAL were finished. If he'd tried to go undercover in his current distracted state he would've gotten himself killed.

* * *

**Next Chapter: Bruce Wayne reflects on his crimes, past and present.**


	20. Selfishness and Self-loathing

**Wayne Manor**

**April 2029**

It'd been a mistake bringing her here.

Bruce Wayne was a womanizer. Even before Chill's parole hearing, before Batman, he'd had a taste for feminine flesh and had done more than his fair share of sleeping around. He'd been the richest of the rich in a private high school, where doors and legs opened up for him with nothing more than a nod. He'd been a teenager then, a confident son of a bitch high on hormones, cocaine and life, willing to screw any girl who'd have him…and some, he admitted with shame, who'd rather not. Bruce had never forced a girl…but he'd done some convincing and bribing and cajoling to get his way. He'd even had a sick bet with Thomas Elliot during senior year, to see who could sleep with the most freshmen. Tommy won, of course…he was bisexual, and Bruce hadn't even thought to stipulate only girls. That revelation had signaled the end of their slowly declining friendship, a loss he'd felt guilty over for years, until tonight. He may have acted like a homophobe that day…but Thomas Elliot had been bad for him, a catalyst for his near criminal behavior. They'd been reckless assholes, wining and dining girls (and in Tommy's case, boys) as young as fourteen, luring them in with the promises of parties, popularity, beer, and duty-free cigarettes. He'd turned eighteen the winter of his senior year…and age of majority be damned, what was the difference between a couple of months?

The difference between scott-free and statutory rape. Goddamnit he didn't want to go there. Not now. Not _ever_.

(They'd had women's bodies. They'd never said no.)

(…but you left more than one of them in tears before it was over, didn't you?)

Goddamnit he didn't want to go there. Not now. Not ever.

But the body pulsing under his now was undoubtably a woman's. She might not have explicitly stated "yes", but she'd undressed herself and slipped between the covers with a look that was both invitation and longing. She'd been waiting, willing, and wet when he'd entered. There was nothing to feel guilty about in fucking Hartford's PA, one more in a long line of dozens…

…so why did he?

"Hey…is this okay?" He asked her clumsily.

"Hmmm," she replied, eyes and lips closed. But there was the trace of a smile to be found on her features.

It'd been all too easy to adopt this larger-than-life persona. Bruce Wayne, his real alter-ego, was founded in truth. Was the worse depiction of himself reflected from the memories of his high school glory years. A shell, a shocking, socially-extroverted disguise that his former classmates would recognize as the asshole they'd once known, the one they'd predicted since he'd first made their lives hell over a decade ago now. Bruce Wayne, the man he'd become as protection for the Batman, was both his penance and his purgatory. Rachel Dawes hadn't been dead three months, and yet here he was. Was it to feel close to her? He finally allowed himself to wonder. To shut his eyes and pretend it was her skin against his? Or was it punishment, that darkness in him demanded, to feel that raw maw of guilt and despair, of blame and anger-?

Ginger was good, she knew when to speak and when to stay silent, let her wandering hands and the gentle rhythm of her hips do all the explaining. She was quiet. Didn't seek to ingratiate. Didn't fake it. Laid there passively, their fingers intertwined, a woman who was used to complying with someone else's needs without a thought for her own. When it was done, whether she'd climaxed or not, she'd turn gently away, let him decide whether to cuddle her or not, assuage the guilt of just getting up and leaving her in shame.

He didn't love her. He'd never loved. Never loved any woman but Rachel Dawes, the friend and lover he'd lost, the woman who believed in him even more than he ever had…and now she was gone. He'd never love again.

But this woman, this time, woke that ember of sadness. Loneliness. Melancholy. It was different this time not because who he was screwing…but _where_, Bruce finally decided. He'd brought the girl back to the Manor where his parents had lived, where Rachel had once played, and it should be her lying next to him. In the Penthouse, or the numerous hotel suites, in a stranger's car, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, pool house…with all those other women—even with Ginger and Cassie in the WE boardroom—it hadn't felt personal.

Even with her bare back turned, _this_ did.

* * *

**Next Chapter: Dr. Fries receives an unexpected visitor.**


	21. An Unexpected Visitor

**April 2029**

**Wayne Enterprises, Research and Development**

Fries' basement lab was even colder than he'd remembered it.

Wayne Enterprises CEO Lucius Fox was an aging man. Not old, _aging_, he'd tell himself, but the greyed hair, the wrinkled face, and two rapidly growing granddaughters told the truth of it. Fox was in denial, as he supposed all men were when faced with their own mortality, but this biting chill let him know it, deep down in his bones. His wrists, hips and knees hurt the worse of all, a throbbing ache that would not relent. Most men his age were retired, or on their way to it. As much as Lucius would love a winter home or permanent residence down in Costa Rica, he had family here. And he had Bruce. Thomas' son. He owned the man that much, at least.

"Ah! Mr. Fox!" Fox heard the German, but couldn't yet see him. "how are you?"

"Cold, since you've asked," he returned pleasantly as the eccentric scientist emerged from the shadows. "But I suppose that's a common complaint down here."

"Yes, _da_," Fries apologized. "It is…how do you say? Feedback loop? I must keep my body temperature cooler, vat vith my condition…yet my body it constantly adjust. I drive the external temperature lower, and my body drive mine own internal temperature even higher!" he explained with his customary quiet enthusiasm.

"That sounds unfortunate," he stated with genuine concern. "And how is your research progressing?"

"Vell, it is my hope that this grant vill help me find a cure before I am operating my lab at Absolute Zero!" Fries chuckled.

"I suppose we could always insulate the floors with superconductors," Lucius laughed. Scientists had gotten close to reaching zero degrees Kelvin, or Absolute Zero, but had never fully replicated it. Fox himself considered it to be more a scientific abstract, a perfect state of matter that existed only in philosophy. Even in the depths of space there were constant movements of electromagnetic fields, however faint, that kept the temperature from reaching a state of metaphysical solidity.

"Vat is it that brings you here?"

"Our mutual employer," he smiled, taking interest in the images projected on the walls. Scanning electron micrographs, he was certain. Observing the structure of what appeared to be nervous tissue, before and after cryopreservation. "I'm here on his behalf to extend you and your wife personal invitations to next month's event out at Wayne Manor," Lucius continued, making certain to keep Fries' reaction in the corner of his gaze. "We hope you can make it. Mr. Wayne's made your comfort and satisfaction with the accommodations here at Wayne Enterprises an area of personal concern…and of course all of us are intrigued about Oona. She's quite the scientist herself, I hear."

Fries face had broken out in a cold sweat. "_Da. Da._ My vife…very intelligent. More so than I, I fear," he choked.

"As CEO of Wayne Enterprises, I'm always looking for brilliant minds, Theo," Lucius finally tore his eyes away from those framed images. "I'd be delighted to meet her."

"I am…I am not sure ve should," the scientist stammered. "Vat vith my health…these parties, they are not—"

"Not to worry, not to worry," Lucius assured him. "Special arrangements have been made. Mr. Wayne and I wouldn't dream to throw a party and exclude you…you're quite the talk of the town, Theo. All our employees and former chairmen are simply dying to meet you."

"Yes, I…sank you," the German whispered.

Lucius extended a hand, which was accepted only reluctantly, then graciously excused himself, leaving a pregnant silence behind in the chilled air.

He went outside to the grounds, basking in the warm relief of the sun's rays, letting the UV and IR radiation soak through into his very bones, feeling release as that cold, gnawing pain subsided. He was getting old, he realized. Too old. His physicians said he was in perfect health for his age…but men his age were dying all the time from MI's and CVA's. And Alfred? Alfred Pennyworth had more health problems and risk factors than he did.

He'd done his job. Operation MOUSETRAP was sent.

…but he was struck with the quiet revelation that both himself and the butler might not be there at its end.

Perhaps Bruce had given up the Batman. Perhaps not. Although Lucius was certain that informing anyone else of their secret was dangerous, he was equally convinced that not bringing in a younger, healthier ancillary support was just as perilous. When he and Alfred were gone, the Dark Detective—like Thomas' son—would live on.

Bruce was alone. Isolated. Solitary. It wasn't good, wasn't healthy, for a young man to be that way….

* * *

**Next Chapter: Pamela Isley faces down the GSU board, and a laboratory intruder just may prove to be an ally. **


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